


Timeless

by Oreste_et_Pylade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Chopin's grave, Grantaire travels back in time and meets Enjolras, M/M, Time Travel, that's why he is so pessimistic about the rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-07-26 23:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 27,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7594816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oreste_et_Pylade/pseuds/Oreste_et_Pylade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Grantaire travels back in time to 1832 and meets a group of students known as Les Amis de l'ABC, he is immediately captivated by their leader - Enjolras. He's only seen that name once before: on a grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Blue Rose

It was raining, as is usual in Paris during autumn. Grantaire found himself in the middle of a downpour on a crowded street. It was wide and straight, with nowhere to go for shelter. Multiple figures scurried past him, and he tried to duck under their umbrellas. This was mostly unsuccessful, as all he obtained were suspicious glances and occasional shoves. Then, a small, elderly lady with a blue umbrella seemed to sift through the crowd and stopped in front of Grantaire. She motioned for him to carry the umbrella and, taking hold of his arm, led him to a narrow side street. He noticed that in her other hand she held a blue rose.

The passage ended suddenly in an open space that seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. Then he saw the tall wall and massive doorway and recognised where they were straight away. Père Lachaise Cemetery. He had been there many times, paying his respects to his heroes and trying to uncover secrets about the past. He was always on his own because he knew his friends would find his innocent interest creepy.

But now, he was with this stranger, who had not yet let go of his arm. In fact, she had tightened her grip and was firmly heaving him along in a specific direction. Like Grantaire, she did not use a map, but unlike him, she knew where she was going instead of enjoying getting lost.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

‘To the grave.’ This answer, however ominous it sounded, was somewhat vague considering they were in a graveyard. Yet, they soon slowed down and he saw they were in front of Chopin’s grave. He knew it from photos but had never seen it in person. It looked similar, with its abundance of flowers, lanterns and Polish flags.

‘Why did we come here?’ he asked.

‘I come here every day,’ she answered with a melancholy smile. ‘Frédéric Chopin was a great man, composer and patriot. His mother was Polish and his father was French. He was forced to flee the country when he refused to play before the Russian governor-general. When he died, he even requested for his heart to be buried in Poland.’ Grantaire had not known that detail before and could not think of anyone else who was that dedicated to their motherland.

‘Is the rose for him?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she answered, and moved apart two flowerpots where another blue rose was lying. She replaced it with the newer one and concealed in between the flowerpots again. She then handed the old rose to Grantaire, even though it still looked new.

‘Why did you just do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Hide the rose. There are plenty of places here where it would be visible. If you go to this much of an effort every single day, you should at least have it recognised.’ He moved to push the flowerpots apart, but she stopped him.

‘I know it is there. That is enough.’

He couldn’t fault her way of thinking so he remained silent while she knelt down in prayer.

‘Are we done?’ he asked when she rose up again.

‘Almost.’ She then got out a small broom and started to sweep the golden autumn leaves off of the grave.

‘Let me help you,’ Grantaire volunteered when she was struggling to reach a higher area. It was painstaking work, especially when the wind kept blowing new leaves onto the grave, but by the time they were done, he felt more accomplished than he had for a long time.

‘We can go back now,’ she declared. ‘Do you want me to show you the way back?’

‘No, thank you. I haven’t been to this area before. I think I’ll wander around a bit longer.’

He decided that a small path leading uphill looked most interesting, so he followed it. When he got to the top, the path seemed to branch off into several smaller ones, each leading in between some trees. He picked one at random and managed to follow it until he found himself squeezing through trees. He closed his eyes while his face was being scratched by the needles and suddenly felt fresh air. He was in a miniature clearing with an impressive grave in front of him.

It was made of marble, and looked to be in good shape, even though it was dated the 6th of June 1832. On the other hand, there was not a single flower on it. It must have been overlooked entirely. There was only a second name – or only a first name perhaps. It was unusual, unlike any he had heard before. Enjolras.

Still, he felt bad for the poor human resting there, so he laid his rose there. Then, he found something he didn’t expect: there was another tombstone just to the side of it. In truth, it was not a tombstone, only a fist-sized rock. It seemed as if it was connected to the main grave, but added as an afterthought. It had no name on it, but there was some writing. It was not engraved professionally, and it was hard to read.

“He sleeps. Although his fate was very strange, he lived. He died when he no longer had his angel. The thing came to pass simply, of itself, as the night comes when the day is gone.”

This intrigued Grantaire as to who these two people were. They could not be related or their names would both be engraved on the same tombstone. He turned the rock around and saw that it also had a date. He was not absolutely certain, but the writing he could make out and logic suggested it was the same date. The 6th of June 1832. The date rang a bell but he could not for the life of him remember what it was.

‘They must have died together.’ Grantaire decided he could speak to himself without the possibility of being overheard. ‘Was it an accident? Maybe they were soldiers. That would explain why they were not buried together. Maybe one was from a wealthy family and one was poor? That’s definitely romantic. And a cliché.’ He had made up stories for unknown names on graves before, but never had he been so drawn in and convinced by his story.

He checked the time and realised he had been lost in thought for twenty minutes. He knew he should head back, but he was also certain he would not find the way there again.

‘Maybe I could make a map? No, there isn’t a proper path so I’d be at a loss even if I managed to get to this area again. Or… I could just mark my location on my phone. Technology.’

He headed back, but even though he found Chopin’s grave again he spent half an hour getting back to the entrance.

That evening, he decided to look up the date on the gravestones. He turned his laptop on, but his internet was painfully slow. Renting accommodation in Paris was expensive enough without having high expectations as to internet connection.

He left a few websites to load and went off to do some reading on Chopin. Most of the books he owned were music orientated so they didn’t have many details about his personal life but then he found a biography and started reading. It drew him in, and he forgot about his other research until he heard his laptop ping because of low battery.  
He only had enough time to look at the first page, but that was enough to jog his memory. The June Rebellion. He knew he recognised it from somewhere; at school he had chosen it for a research project because there was not much information to do with it, so he could know everything about it.

He was tired so he went to bed, but he couldn’t fall asleep for a long time. He was thinking too much: about the graves, the June Rebellion, the mysterious old lady, and Chopin.

That resulted in staying up way too late reading the biography until he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this is my multiple chapter work that I will definitely finish within a few weeks. Please leave a comment to let me know if you liked it or not, and if you're wondering where time travel comes into this, I guess you'll have to wait for the chapter next week ;)


	2. Maelstrom

He had a strange dream.

He dreamt that a portrait of Chopin was speaking to him while holding a blue rose. Then the rose spoke, but only said the name “Enjolras”.  
Then he realised he was holding the rose, and it was wilting fast.

The old lady came along and replaced the rose in his hand with a fresh one, but this time when it wilted, it turned into a knife. He then fell over and the knife was pressing on his stomach.

He woke up startled, still feeling the knife. He turned over and saw that he had been sleeping on the book.

Still half-asleep, he went to work: he worked in a printing shop, one that could print out anything from documents to customised clothing. It was pretty monotonous work, but he got on well with the people who worked with him, which usually brightened his mood.

Most tasks that day were straightforward, with the exception of two strange girls who wanted hoodies with Delacroix’s ‘Liberty Leading the People’ on them.  
It was a Sunday, so they shut early. With nothing else to do, he subconsciously started to walk towards the cemetery again. It was about the time of the downpour the day before, so there was a possibility of the woman being there again.

He passed a flower shop and, on a whim, bought a red rose. He did not know why but he decided he didn’t want to come empty handed again and buying a blue rose would be too imitative.

This time he got a map and found Chopin’s grave much easier. The woman was not there, but it was a bit earlier than the day before so he decided to wait. He had an idea that since the woman had such a specific ritual, she might show up at the exact same time every day. He sat down by the side of the grave and got his book out.

After a while, he heard the rustling of leaves as footsteps approached. He looked up and recognised the woman.

‘What is your name?’ he asked as soon as he saw her.

‘Aurore,’ she said – that was the name of the woman who had an affair with Chopin. Perhaps she was related to her. It was an unlikely explanation of her behaviour, but an explanation nonetheless.

‘I’m Grantaire.’

‘So, you came again.’

‘I read up some more about Chopin. I don’t know much about his music, but I know some more about his past now.’

They repeated the chores of the day before, but this time Grantaire asked the woman to follow him instead.

He had memorised Enjolras’ grave’s location so he could appear as knowledgeable as she was about the cemetery. He realised this was slightly childish, but he couldn’t help it.  
He found it easily enough, although he felt guilty about making Aurore pass through the trees. However, she did not make any objection. She was definitely unusual, and this intrigued Grantaire.

He put his rose down in place of the blue one and asked her what she thought about the grave. Her opinion was similar to his, although she immediately recognised that it was to do with the June Rebellion. At the start she was just saying the facts he knew, but then she told him a story she had heard from her grandfather whose father had taken part in the rebellion.

‘He used to tell me about the people who took part in it. Most of his father’s friends from then died there.’

‘It was not a very successful rebellion, and mostly workers and students took part in it, so most of the dead would not have a grave like this. However, some students were rich. Especially some from a group which was called, as I recall, Les Amis de l’ABC.’

Grantaire smiled at the pun.

‘They were the revolutionaries who held the barricade near Rue Mondetour. Their leader was referred to as Apollo. I don’t know why, but it must have been because of his beauty.’

‘He was charismatic, from a rich family and cold but just. This may be his gravestone. My grandfather remembered the stories his father told him but he did not remember all the names.’

‘Thank you. This has been very informative. By the way, where do you get your roses?’

‘It’s a small shop just off Rue Gambetta. I’ll show you’.

As Grantaire expected, the flowers there were cheaper so he promised to himself to start his own ritual of laying a red rose on Enjolras’ and the stranger’s grave every day.  
He kept his promise for weeks. Then, one day, he was ill and could not leave his bed. He felt terrible for not being able to do so but he knew it would be irrational to endanger himself for the sake of keeping up a ritual.

The next day he bought two roses and laid one on the main grave and the other under the rock.

He picked up the old rose and was about to leave when something strange happened. There were no petals on the rose, but suddenly they seemed to fly out of nowhere and attach themselves back onto it.

Then, when he looked up at the sky it was flashing between day and night.  
When he looked back at where the rose was, it was no longer there. He was left with a fistful of dust.

The clearing disappeared.

There were trees everywhere, but soon they moved out of his face. He observed with horror as they turned into tiny saplings, and then disappeared altogether.

He looked down at his feet and did not see Enjolras’ grave. He went down from the hill and could not see Chopin’s grave. In fact, there were notably few graves there.

A short distance from where Chopin’s grave used to be – will be? – Grantaire saw a trail of mourners leading away from a shiny new grave bursting with flowers, just by where the Casimir Périer Roundabout used to be. Again, will be?

When they were what he deemed to be a safe distance away, he went up to the grave and read the name. Jean-François Champollion. Year of death: 1832.

There was no doubt.

He had travelled back in time.

He was about to discard that theory as being absurd, but a small, open-minded part of his brain decided to push all the doubts to the back of his head and focus on what he was going to do next.

He left the cemetery and headed down Rue de la Roquette at a brisk pace. He had no idea where he was headed so he continued in a straight line for as long as possible, hardly daring to glance around. This was not the Paris he knew – definite proof that he had travelled in time.

He found himself crossing to the other side of the Seine and then turning in random directions. 

In total, he was walking for over an hour. It was freezing and he was out of breath so when he saw a warm yellow light coming from a café on a corner he decided to risk everything and go inside, not bothering to look at the sign above the entrance that read ‘Café Musain’.

He did not have the confidence to sit at a table, and even if he did, he realised he did not have the contemporary currency. As a result he lingered behind the door, hoping no one would notice him while warmed himself. It appeared to be working, as none of the people entering wanted to look back out onto the cold street. In doing so, he was able to overhear a snippet of conversation between two young men entering.

‘Did Enjolras tell you what we were going to be deciding this week, Bossuet?’ said one of them while scratching his nose with his cane.

‘No, Joly. I haven’t seen him at all this week.’ The other one answered, taking his hat off. Grantaire noticed he was bald, although he seemed around the same age as him.

‘Well, whatever it is,’ Joly answered, ‘I hope this meeting will be over soon and we can get back home.’

They went up to the bar and got two bottles of wine. To Grantaire this seemed to be a lot for two people, but the waitress appeared to be used to it. Then they went into some passage and disappeared.

He quickly forgot about that because his heart was pounding in his chest. From when he heard the name ‘Enjolras’ the rest of the conversation seemed to be coming from behind a veil.

The odds of this happening were astronomical. Him finding the man whose grave he had spent weeks obsessing about by complete coincidence. No, he decided. It had to be more than that. He was in 1832 – the year of Enjolras’ death.

It was fate.

Mustering up his courage, he walked up to the waitress the men had spoken to. Only when he had got her attention he realised he had no idea what to ask her.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I – is this where Les Amis de l’ABC meet?’

She narrowed her eyes and scrutinised Grantaire. He knew she was wondering whether he was a spy.

‘That depends on who is asking.’

‘I’m a student. I study with Joly.’ He knew this was a gamble.

‘What do you study?’ She asked, raising her eyebrows. She said it in a casual tone, but he knew she was interrogating him. He knew it was probably law or medicine. But which one? He tried to think back. Joly had a cane although he did not need one – but that could be to make himself look grander. Although – this was a group of revolutionaries, so he decided to go with the hypochondriac idea and tried to remember something else that would back this up. From the conversation he heard, he assumed Joly and Bossuet lived together. Both of them were dressed warmer than the other people in the bar. He had to hazard a guess.

‘Medicine.’ He said in a surprisingly confident tone. From the expression on the waitress’ face, he assumed he was correct.

‘Wait here,’ she said, and went off into the passage.

Confirming his worst fears, she came back with Joly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, sorry for the cliffhanger. This chapter was a little too short so I switched the order around a bit. Enjolras will appear next week and, as always, any feedback is welcome! :)


	3. Enjolras

‘Joly, does this man study medicine with you?’

Joly looked at Grantaire’s face with a slightly surprised look. Then Grantaire established eye contact and tried to send out a plea. Joly turned away and answered coldly.

‘Yes.’

Grantaire could not believe his luck. The waitress nodded at him. Joly put his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and, with a firm grip, started to lead him away towards the light and voices coming from the other end of the passage.

Grantaire was about to speak but Joly shushed him and took him down another side passage that led outside.

‘I don’t study with you,’ Grantaire confessed as soon as they stopped and Joly was looking at him expectantly.

‘I am aware of that,’ he answered with a smile. ‘But why did you say so?’

‘I really wanted to get into your meetings, and I heard you mention Enjolras and-‘

‘You know Enjolras?’

‘No! Well, yes. Kind of. But… he doesn’t know me.’

Joly blinked.

Grantaire decided to go for it.

‘I’m from the future’.

Joly did not laugh, as expected. Instead, he questioned him in an unchanged tone.

‘When in the future?’

‘Er – 2016. You believe me?!’

‘I don’t know yet. I’m trying to decide.’

‘What will it take to convince you?’

‘The truth.’

‘But – how will you know what is the truth?’

‘Just tell me the truth and I’ll believe it.’

‘Alright then. As I said, I’m from 2016. I learnt about the June Rebellion – that is, what you’re planning – for a history project at school.’

‘Did you learn about me?’ Joly interrupted hopefully.

‘Er – no, we didn’t actually learn any specific names…’

‘But then, how do you know about Enjolras?’

‘Damn, you’re sharp. I… well… don’t freak out, ok?’

‘O - k…’ Joly repeated this unknown phrase cautiously, but he thought he understood the meaning.

‘Oh yeah… that’s a few years later, and in the US’

‘Just a new word is not enough to convince me, Grantaire.’ Grantaire tried to recall if he had given his name at any point in the conversation, ‘But, I like it: O-K’.

‘Anyway, don’t freak out, but,’ he took a deep breath, ‘I found his name on a gravestone’.

Joly laughed.

‘That’s O-K then. Don’t worry, I know there is no human alive now who will be alive in 184 years.’ While impressed with his quick calculations, Grantaire had to correct him.

‘You misunderstand. The tombstone was dated 1832.’

The smile immediately disappeared from Joly’s face.

‘Well, that means the rebellion was a failure. There is no way the rest of us would survive if Enjolras did not.’

‘That doesn’t seem to bother you’

‘My friend, we all knew when we joined that there was a high chance we would die. That is a risk we are all willing to take in order to free the French people.’

‘But – what if it doesn’t do anything?’

‘I’m sure we will at least manage to inspire future generations. Do you know if there is a successful rebellion after this?’

‘Well, I suppose 1848 was-‘

‘See, there is nothing to worry about. Now, come in and meet the rest of the group.’

They stepped back into the warm passage and went towards the cheerful voices. Joly pushed the door open and led Grantaire into the room.

Amidst the bright atmosphere, no one noticed their entrance, and Joly took Grantaire to a table where the man he was with earlier – Bossuet, he believed – was sitting.

‘Bossuet, meet Grantaire’ Joly said while pushing Grantaire down onto a stool. ‘He’ll be joining us’.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ Bossuet shook his hand. ‘Hopefully you’re more up for a laugh than _certain_ other members.’ He winked.

‘Bossuet, why don’t you offer our friend some wine while I talk to Enjolras about it?’

‘You’re not going to tell him about-?’ Grantaire glanced at Bossuet.

‘There is no need, at least not yet. I will explain it to Bossuet later. He will believe me.’

Bossuet poured Grantaire some wine and ensured Joly was a suitable distance away before he looked at Grantaire quizzically.

‘So, my friend, what is this secret we are not to tell Enjolras?’

‘I think, maybe, Joly would explain it to you better than I can’.

Bossuet, kindly, did not press the matter any further and gossiped to Grantaire about all the affairs of Les Amis until Joly came back with, he assumed, Enjolras.

But this Enjolras could not be a man. He had to be an angel, a god even. He had a halo of golden locks, a flawless complexion, and most of all, stunning blue eyes that Grantaire could not take his own eyes off. He gaped at him in admiration, until Bossuet kicked him under the table with a snicker.

‘You wish to join us?’ Enjolras asked.

‘Yes,’ Grantaire answered, stunned by Enjolras’ strong but kind tone of voice.

‘Will you, in all honesty, devote your life and death to our motherland?’

This question filled Grantaire with inspiration, as if he had an insight into Enjolras’ mind.

‘Yes,’ he answered earnestly and without hesitation.

‘Then you shall join us.’ Enjolras smiled slightly and walked away. Grantaire found himself reaching out after him until he quickly stopped himself and yanked his hand away.

Joly and Bossuet exchanged a knowing glance.

‘You seem to be quite taken with our leader.’

Grantaire blushed.

‘No – I, well, um-‘

‘Don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone’.

‘That is, if you don’t betray yourself,’ Joly and Bossuet smirked.

Grantaire felt his face rapidly growing red and downed his glass of wine, before turning to gaze at Enjolras.

After a while, he realised, the blue eyes were staring back at him.

Then he heard him speak.

His words were powerful and confident, and he had no need to call for silence in the room once he had started to talk. They conveyed a strong passion, like a burning fire, that seemed to spread from person to person like trees in a forest fire.

His hope was like untrodden on snow – it looked so pure and convincing. No one in the room suspected it could get trampled on so easily. No one but Grantaire.

At that moment, he believed Enjolras’ words completely. Had he not known the outcome, he would never have suspected they were lies. All lies.

Lies that would eventually cause all of his followers’ deaths.

 _But he is not to blame,_ Grantaire thought to himself. _He is deceiving himself also, and he is not even aware that he is doing it. I can feel no resentment to him. Only sadness._

Then, the most resounding thought of all came to him.

_I wish his words were true._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, Enjolras has appeared! If you have any questions or feedback, feel free to say so in the comments :)
> 
> P.S. I also have an account on fanfiction.net where there are some stories co-written with my sister. If you enjoyed this, check it out: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/7176946/E-et-R


	4. Settling In

Before Grantaire was even aware of it, the meeting was over and everyone was heading home. That was when he realised he had no home to go to. The building he lived in probably did not even exist yet. Fortunately, Joly noticed his predicament.

‘Ah, but you must come home with us, Grantaire! I’m sure Bossuet won’t mind!’ He glanced meaningfully at Bossuet.

‘Yes, of course. I am a guest myself.’

‘You are welcome to stay with us until you can find your own accommodation.’

‘After we set France free, everyone will have a home.’

 _Yeah. In Heaven._ Grantaire was startled by this cynical thought that suddenly entered his head.

Surely he would never say something like that out loud, no matter how strongly he felt compelled to.

Joly and Bossuet’s apartment was not too far from the café. Still, it was further than he would have liked, considering the ice cold wind. Joly noticed him shivering.

‘Mon Dieu! My friend, dressed like that you will catch a cold! You must wear more than just your coat.’

‘And your trousers are made of the strangest material I have ever seen!’

‘They’re – uh – jeans.’ Grantaire stammered in reply.

‘Jeans, you say! That is another new word you have introduced me to this evening, Grantaire.’ Joly laughed but Grantaire could sense he was urging him to be more cautious. After all, Bossuet did not yet know his story and it would be better for him to find out in the comfort of his own home than on a cold street.

The three men had to climb five flights of stairs once inside the building and with the mixture of everything that had happened that day Grantaire felt ready to collapse.

‘I will get the mattress ready for you straight away, my friend. You must be tired after today!’ Joly seemed slightly rushed, as if wanting to tell the truth to Bossuet as quickly as possible and get it over with.

A straw-filled mattress and an old blanket had never seemed so appealing to Grantaire.

‘Wait here, I will find you some nightclothes’.

But by the time Joly returned, Grantaire was fast asleep on the mattress.

Grantaire kept sleeping peacefully until ten minutes later, when he was suddenly woken up by a raucous bellow from another room.

For a moment he was terrified, but he soon realised it was Bossuet’s laughter. No doubt Joly had told him Grantaire’s story.

He then heard a few hurried footsteps and Joly’s whisper.

‘No, wait! He’s asleep!’

But Bossuet had already left the room and sat on the edge of Grantaire’s mattress.

He could see his eyes were brimming with curiosity, but before he had a chance to say anything, his phone made a sound.

‘What was that?’ Joly, who had just come into the room, asked.

Grantaire, still half-asleep, did not process information as he should have.

‘Just my phone.’ He checked it. ‘It wants to perform an update. Good luck with that – there’s no internet!’

Joly and Bossuet stared at him like he was crazy.

‘Oh… Never mind.’ Grantaire attempted to hide his phone under the mattress, but Bossuet was already reaching out and snatched it out of his hand.

‘This is… strange. A rectangle from glass and-‘

‘Plastic’.

‘Is this proof of you being from the future? But – how does it work?’

‘Just press the button on the side,’ Grantaire said, ‘and **don’t** drop it!’

Joly crouched behind Bossuet and was peeking over his shoulder to see what might make his friend drop the object.

‘Why would he do that?’ he asked.

Bossuet pressed the button and dropped the phone with a yelp.

Fortunately it fell on the mattress, so it was unharmed.

‘It’s – it’s a picture! But it only shows when you press the button,’ Bossuet was amazed. ‘This is magic!’

‘Not magic, Bossuet,’ Joly replied. ‘Technology. Am I correct?’

Grantaire nodded. Joly picked the phone up and examined it more closely.

‘What does it do?’

‘A lot of things, actually. For now, try swiping up.’

Joly did so and was stunned by how he could manipulate the picture with his touch.

Once the initial shock had worn off, he read out the text on the screen.

‘Enter password. What is your password?’

‘Touch the numbers 2-4-6-0-1.’

The phone was unlocked, and at the moment it was on his text messages.

‘Ooh, what are these?’ Joly and Bossuet said in unison.

‘They’re… text messages. Sort of like letters.’

‘How do you send them?’

‘You write them and press the send button.’

‘But how do they get to the other person’s – phone, was it?’

‘I – I’m not sure. It would be hard to explain without using other terms you don’t know. Anyway, I should turn it off to save battery. Maybe I’ll have to use it to convince someone else.’

‘Well, I have to say I had my doubts, but you have convinced me completely,’ Bossuet said while yawning. ‘You should try to sleep, because tomorrow we will find you a job.’

This time it took Grantaire much longer to fall asleep. Everything was sinking in: time travel, revolution, new friends and Enjolras. Mostly Enjolras.

The next day he was woken up by Joly slamming the door as he entered the house, possibly on purpose. From a bundle in his hands there carried the smell of freshly baked bread. He laid it down on the table, tore it in three and tossed Grantaire his share. It was still warm, with a crispy crust and a soft inside.

‘Thank you. Are you sure you don’t mind supporting me until I can support myself?’

Joly looked at him in disbelief.

‘Of course we don’t. We would never turn our backs on a friend in need.’

Grantaire was touched by being referred to as a friend. Either Les Amis de l’ABC were especially amiable, or the times were much simpler. It was easy to become lifelong friends after having just met. Love at first sight was possible.

He had never thought of himself as cynical until he had travelled back in time. Perhaps the world had lost something as years passed.

Bossuet came into the room, tore off a giant piece of bread with his teeth and put his coat on.

‘Come on Grantaire,’ he said with bread in his mouth, ‘our lectures start in an hour. Before that, we will find you a job’.

Grantaire was amazed by his optimism.

‘Do you have a job in the future?’ Joly asked as they walked down a street.

‘Yes. I work at a printing shop.’

‘There are plenty here in Paris. I’m sure we can find you work there’.

‘Only – it’s very different now. I don’t think I’d be qualified.’

‘Indeed, that may be a problem.’

‘Do you know any other languages?’ Bossuet interjected.

‘English and Hebrew’.

‘Hebrew, you say! Our friend, Jehan, understands it! However, he has not put it to good use: only for reading. If he found a job that made use of it, I am sure he would earn himself a tidy sum of money. Do you know anywhere like that, Joly?’

‘I am sure the archives have a great amount of Hebrew scrolls that need translating. There are not many people with the skills and the will to do it.’

And so they went to the archives. He started work straight away. The owner, Monsieur Dubois, who had a face wrinkled with traces of laughter, was delighted to finally have someone help him out. Most people who were educated enough to work there were usually from the upper class, so they had no need of work.

It was more difficult than he had anticipated, but Monsieur Dubois, as he soon found out, was a very good-humoured man and was willing to help out Grantaire if there were any words he did not understand.

Before he knew it, Joly and Bossuet were back, this time with another. His clothes looked expensive but did not match; he had a gentle face that was either looking down at his feet or up at the ceiling. He had the appearance of a dreamer.

‘Good evening, Monsieur Dubois! Grantaire!’

‘How did our translator do?’ Bossuet ruffled Grantaire’s hair, to the latter’s great embarrassment.

‘I was very impressed with his work. This is a real treasure you’ve found for me this time, Messieurs. Speaking of treasures… Monsieur Prouvaire?’ Dubois was looking at the stranger hopefully.

‘Thank you for your kind request Monsieur, but sadly I have to decline. I am afraid using languages for work would spoil the magic I see in them through poetry.’ Prouvaire spoke softly with a timid voice, avoiding making eye contact.

‘As I thought. It’s a shame. If you ever change your mind, my offer still stands.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur.’

Prouvaire went up to Grantaire and handed him some sort of scarf.

‘It’s raining outside, I thought you might use this.’ He smiled shyly.

‘Boys,’ the old man called out to them as they were leaving, ‘I am proud of your work. Send my best regards to your friends and Enjolras.’

They hurried outside and looked questioningly at Grantaire.

‘Oh, I told him about it,’ he explained himself. ‘Was I not meant to?’ He asked gingerly.

‘Um, best not tell Enjolras about it. I think we can trust him, but that may not have been the case.’

‘Sorry. But I was sure we could trust him: he was complaining about poverty and how what the government is doing is disgraceful and they are probably causing the outbreak of cholera and-‘

‘It’s ok, Grantaire,’ Bossuet was proud of himself for using the word, ‘we trust your judgement, but in the future remember that our meetings are secret.’

‘More to the point, how did he know about Enjolras?’ Joly interrupted teasingly. ‘You’ve barely met him and old Dubois already seems to consider him worthy of praise.’

Grantaire flushed.

‘Anyway, this is the friend we mentioned earlier, Jean Prouvaire, or Jehan, as he prefers to be called. This is our linguistic genius.’

Jehan joined Grantaire in blushing. He wondered whether Joly and Bossuet were doing this on purpose: they must have known how bashful he was.

‘Thank you for the scarf. It was very thoughtful of you.’ It was indeed pouring down and Grantaire was grateful to be able to keep his head dry. ‘Where are we going now?’

‘The meeting. We have one every evening.’

‘Wow, that’s dedication.’

‘We _are_ planning a revolution, you know?’ Bossuet seemed to love making fun of people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I thought this work might have around 5 chapters (how wrong I was XDD). I have 8 written so far and the revolution is just about to start so I think it will wrap up at around 12.  
> Any feedback is welcome! Until next week ;)


	5. Grantaire, The Drunkard

Grantaire was seated with Joly and Bossuet at their usual table. This time, Jehan joined them. He did not seem to be paying much attention to what Enjolras was saying, and instead was scribbling away in a little notebook.

‘Are you writing a poem?’ He asked him, only glancing sideways, not wanting to take his eyes off Enjolras. ‘The others said you were a poet.’

‘It’s not a poem, exactly. It’s more of a message,’ Jehan answered quietly.

Grantaire looked away from Enjolras and faced Jehan. ‘A message? Who for?’

‘It’s for you.’ Jehan said, and passed the notebook to Grantaire.

‘Me?’ Grantaire was surprised. He took the notebook and read the “message”.

 

_I do not know who you are or what you are doing here, but I think you know more than you appear to. Joly and Bossuet know something, but they will not tell me. They do not need to. I have an idea about where you’re from. I think you are from the future, and you know the outcome of the rebellion. Tell me if I am right._

 

‘You’re right,’ Grantaire answered Jehan. ‘How could you possibly know that?’

Jehan smiled at him and avoided the question.

‘I’m glad you were honest with me. I am certain I can trust you now.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Can you tell me about the future? I think it would make a wonderful poem.’

‘Wonderful? Not terrible? Knowing about everyone’s deaths?’

‘But the future must be a wonderful place! If not, what are we fighting for?’

‘I suppose it is. But sometimes it definitely doesn’t feel like it. There is still so much war, greed and hate in the world. Even if you change the world, I don’t think you can change human nature.’

‘Even if a utopia is unachievable, we can never stop trying. As long as we don’t give up, there will always be hope.’

‘I see why you’re a poet now. Alright then, I suppose I can tell you the good things about the future.’

*     *     *

‘Wine for everyone!’ Grantaire may have already had a few drinks and was feeling happy. ‘Especially you two, for finding me good work,’ he turned to Joly and Bossuet.

Cheers followed, accompanied by the pouring of wine and clanking together of glasses. Everyone had taken Grantaire up on his offer. Except for one person.

‘Won’t you have any, Enjolras? It’s on me.’ Grantaire looked at the leader softly.

‘I appreciate the gesture, Grantaire, but we’re here for a meeting.’

‘Come on, the meeting’s over!’ Courfeyrac called out. ‘Loosen up a bit, Enjolras.’

‘I – I don’t drink alcohol.’ He looked down at the three men seated at the table disdainfully.

‘Suit yourself,’ said Joly, pouring himself another glass.

‘Well, I’m going home. I have some work to do.’ He picked up his coat and walked out of the door without looking back.

‘Somehow it’s much quieter now,’ Grantaire reflected sombrely.

‘Oh no, I know what’s happening,’ said Bossuet. ‘You’ve had too much to drink and now you’re going to be melancholy.’

‘Now we can’t have that,’ Joly smiled, ‘Let’s go home.’

They led a slightly swaying Grantaire away, his eyes seemingly trying to focus on some point in the distance.

‘Where does Enjolras live?’ he asked suddenly.

‘We don’t know. Probably somewhere where he can get to the Musain and university quickly.’ Joly answered.

‘It’s probably a nice place,’ Bossuet added. ‘He’s an only son to rich parents.’

Grantaire laughed.

‘Really? That is strange for the leader of a group of revolutionaries.’

‘We don’t know whether he is still on speaking terms with his parents or not. Honestly, we hardly know anything about him.’

‘And yet you’re willing to trust him with your lives, huh? Well, I can’t say I blame you.’ Grantaire smiled. ‘Are you all students, then?’

‘Most of us. Some are workers: Feuilly, for example. He is a fan maker. Don’t think he isn’t intelligent, though. He taught himself how to read and write. Everything he knows, he has taught himself. He specialises in other countries, specifically Poland.’

‘Poland, huh,’ Grantaire was reminded of someone else. ‘Wait a second. It’s not a proper country right now. It’s partitioned by Prussia, Russia and Austria, yes?’

‘Sadly,’ Bossuet sighed. ‘It cannot continue for long, though.’

‘Until 1918’.

‘Really? Maybe you shouldn’t have told me that.’

‘Probably not.’ Grantaire made a grave face, then burst out laughing.

‘What does it matter?’ He continued. ‘It seems like I’m stuck here with you now. I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to my time’.

The journey home continued in silence.

Just before they reached their building, Grantaire spoke up again.

‘I don’t think I want to.’

Joly and Bossuet looked at him questioningly.

‘I don’t think I want to go back to my time. Honestly, I’m nobody there, and I don’t think I would have done anything good with my life. But here, I’m already friends with you, and I’m taking part in a revolution.’

‘You want to take part? But you know nothing will come of it. You know you will die. Will you be able to put up with all the optimism?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not concerned with my death, but I am with yours. At some point, I may try to convince you to not take part.’

‘There is no chance of that,’ Joly laughed.

‘I know,’ Grantaire replied quietly, ‘but that won’t stop me from trying. In the end, you might dislike me.’

‘Never!’ Bossuet shouted.

‘Even if you do,’ Grantaire whispered, more to himself than to anyone else, ‘it will be for the best.’

At that moment, he had decided on what he would do. Even if it resulted in everyone hating him, he would try to stop the rebellion.

Even if it meant that Enjolras would hate him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the shortest so far and kind of all over the place but it needs to be there. The next one is twice as long and that's where it starts getting good (in my opinion at least lol).


	6. Faith Soars and Doubt Creeps

After a few weeks of meetings, Grantaire had rented his own furnished lodgings near the Café Musain and was firmly established as a member of the group. He had not yet disagreed with Enjolras directly, but he had said a few things that questioned what Enjolras was saying.

Enjolras was curious about him. He could see that Grantaire genuinely cared about Les Amis de l’ABC and the revolution, so he had trouble understanding why Grantaire seemed to be trying to put everyone off.

He could not have been a spy – he was too genuine for that – but why did he spend most of his time being drunk and criticising his ideals? Perhaps something had happened that had made Grantaire lose all hope? If so, he felt pity towards him.

 _A faith is a necessity to a man. Woe to him who believes in nothing_ – that was one of Enjolras’ ideals. Did Grantaire disagree with that as well?

After one meeting, Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire were the last to leave. Grantaire seemed to be sober – a rare occasion, so Enjolras thought he would use this opportunity to speak to him.

‘Joly, Bossuet, would you mind leaving alone today? I would like to speak to Grantaire alone.’ Joly wolf whistled and hurriedly left, dragging Bossuet behind him. Enjolras rolled his eyes.

Grantaire was petrified. Enjolras wanted to speak to him.

He had never even mentioned his name before, and now he wanted to speak to him, _alone_. He could not imagine any case in which this could be good news. Perhaps he had gone too far with his criticism, and now Enjolras did not want him in the group anymore. He had not thought of that possibility, but he realised he could not afford for that to happen. If he could no longer speak to them, how could he warn them?

Enjolras approached him.

‘Are you asking me to leave?’ Grantaire blurted out before he had time to think it through. Once he realised what he had said, he was internally facepalming.

‘Leave? No! Why on Earth would I do that?’ Enjolras seemed shocked.

‘Because… I disagree with what you say and I undermine your authority.’

‘I am not a dictator, Grantaire. That type of command is something I am fighting against. We are a democracy. You are perfectly within your rights to express your opinion.’ Enjolras had not realised how strongly he felt about it until he had stated it to Grantaire. Somehow this cynic seemed to strengthen his beliefs.

‘Then – why did you want to speak to me?’

‘As the leader, it is my responsibility to ensure everyone is happy. It appears that you are not.’

‘No – I – I am, I’m just… I don’t think we’ll be successful.’

‘Is that any reason to stop trying?’

‘No, but – doesn’t it bother you? If we know we won’t succeed, shouldn’t we stop and rethink?’

‘As long as we have faith, we can succeed.’

‘That’s what Jehan said.’

‘And he’s right, Grantaire. You cannot live without faith, so why do you try?’

‘I don’t try to. I really would like to have faith in the revolution, but I don’t. I can’t fake it.’

‘Then, you must have faith in something. Is there anything you believe in?’

‘I believe in you.’

Neither Grantaire nor Enjolras understood the full meaning of those words. Grantaire was unsure whether he had revealed something he shouldn’t have and was internally facepalming again, and Enjolras was satisfied that he had got something out of Grantaire.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I’m not really sure myself. I think, if anyone could actually change the world, it would be you.’

Those words pleased Enjolras greatly and he smiled. This was something rarely directed at Grantaire. He put his hand on the stunned man’s shoulder.

‘Walk with me, Grantaire.’ He said, and took them outside.

There were plenty of beggars on the streets, their number increasing with every turn. Grantaire felt that this was deliberate, and Enjolras wanted him to see it.

‘Look at them, Grantaire. It breaks my heart to see any human suffer like this. They have done nothing to deserve it, but the people in power have done nothing to help. How can they do this?’ His voice broke slightly. ‘How can they let others suffer when they have the power to change everything?!’

‘Humans are selfish.’

‘No, Grantaire! Not all of them. The people in power are. Now, new generations of the rich are taught not to see the poor as human. This cannot continue. We must set an example.’

Grantaire had never in his life met anyone as compassionate as Enjolras. At meetings he seemed to be made of marble, but now he could see that he was human. He was more human than any other human he knew. Their eyes met and Grantaire held his gaze.

‘I want to help you. I really do.’

‘And I need your help.’ This exchange of words while looking straight into each other’s eyes radiated honesty. ‘Look at them, Grantaire. Why would they not join us? They have nothing left to lose.’

‘Maybe they have already lost hope.’

‘Then we must help them regain it. We must let them know that we care and we are going to help them.’

‘How can I help? I am the one with no hope, remember?’

‘I don’t believe that. You said you believe in me and I am sure you can make me believe in you.’ Enjolras paused. ‘More to the point, I didn’t bring you here to show you only suffering. I wanted to show you that there is still hope. Come with me’.

Grantaire recognised where they were. It was the Place de la Bastille and what he saw in front of him was the Bastille Elephant.

Somewhere underneath it there seemed to be a doorway. Enjolras knocked four times and quickly a small boy appeared.

‘Hello, Enjolras!’ He grinned. ‘What brings you here?’

‘This is…’ Enjolras looked back at Grantaire and smiled, ‘my… friend – Grantaire. He has joined Les Amis and I want you to show him round.’

‘Show him round where?’

‘Paris. Well, obviously not the whole of Paris, but the places he should see.’

Grantaire got the feeling this did not mean sightseeing.

‘Of course, I understand! Come with me, Grantaire!’ The boy darted off and Grantaire only had time to glance back at Enjolras before he ran to catch up with him.

‘Er – what is your name?’

‘Gavroche’, the boy replied, then suddenly stopped. ‘First, we get food. There’s a bakery over there. I don’t think there will be any other people in it. If you distract the baker, I’ll be able to take some bread.’

‘Wait, you’re going to steal it?’ Grantaire whispered in alarm.

‘Well, do you have any money on you?’

‘I think I have a couple of francs.’

‘Fine, then. You buy it.’

Grantaire went into the shop and bought two loafs of bread while Gavroche waited outside. He got back and handed Gavroche one of them. The little boy stared at it in admiration.

Gavroche led Grantaire back to the elephant. When he took his coat off, he saw that Gavroche had an abundance of bread and pastries hidden underneath.

‘Gavroche!’ He exclaimed. ‘I bought you bread, you didn’t need to steal it!’

‘This isn’t for me.’ Gavroche replied and whistled.

Two boys, even smaller than him, appeared.

‘Here you go.’ He said, giving them a roll each. ‘I told you I’d get you food.’

The boys seemed intimidated by Grantaire, so, having taken their rolls, swiftly retreated.

‘Are those your brothers?’

‘No. I suppose they’re like my adopted children. I found them on the street and took them in.’

Grantaire was seeing the boy in a whole new light.

‘Come on, there are more people who need our help.’

This time when they went out, Gavroche stopped by every beggar they saw and gave them some bread. Once they had given out all the bread, they started walking towards another area. The streets were cleaner, the buildings were nicer, there were hardly any beggars, and the people passing by on foot or in carriages looked healthy and well dressed.

‘This is the nice area. There is no “beggar scum” here. Only the rich. I think they know about the conditions we live in. They just don’t care. It’s wrong and it has to change.’

‘Do you hate them?’

‘No, not all of them. I hate the idea of them, but I know there are some kind people, even among the rich. Enjolras, for example. And there’s another strange man who always gives alms to the poor. He has a daughter one of our friends is in love with, I don’t know if you’ve met him. His name is Marius Pontmercy.’

‘No, I haven’t. Does he come to meetings?’

‘He used to, but he didn’t really share their beliefs. He’s a Buonapartist, as Enjolras would say. But the main reason is because of this girl. He is completely obsessed with her. Anyway, I can’t hate all of the rich. I don’t know what they’re like. Of course, many of them are heartless and terrible, but some of them are the same as us.’

Just then, a scream came from a side alley. It came from an old woman dressed in black.

‘Thief!’ She screamed. ‘That man stole my purse! Someone stop him, please!’

Grantaire realised the man was running towards them, so he tried to step in the way, however Gavroche pulled him back.

‘You won’t catch him like that,’ he said, ‘He is stronger than you and he could kill you. Wait until he feels safe.’

Gavroche chased after him, leaving Grantaire behind. The thief turned around and, not seeing anyone behind him, slowed down and moved onto a crowded street. He had not seen Gavroche, who was still following him at a safe distance. Once he entered into the crowd, Gavroche seized his opportunity. He was small so he could fit between everyone’s legs. He got near to the man, and gently slipped his hand inside his pocket. He found the purse, pulled it out and started crawling away rapidly.

The moment Gavroche retrieved the purse, the man noticed. However, as he was looking around desperately, he failed to look down and see the little boy swiftly moving away.

The next time Grantaire saw Gavroche was when he was giving the purse back to the woman. The woman smiled and gave him a big, shiny coin, complimenting him for his honesty.

For the next ten minutes, they walked in silence, Gavroche staring at the coin mesmerised. He was not looking where he was going, and Grantaire had to grab his collar to stop him walking into a begging girl.

‘Please,’ she said, ‘my family are starving. Could you please spare any bread?’

They did not have any bread left, but as they walked away, the girl was left staring in awe at the coin in her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! At least Gavroche is here now and next chapter we start crossing over with canon. Any feedback is appreciated! :)


	7. The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> N.B. From this point, events start to cross over with canon, however their outcomes are different because Grantaire from the future acts differently from Grantaire in the book.   
> Enjoy! :)

Enjolras was distributing jobs. Everyone had a job except Grantaire. This was the first time Grantaire had heard Enjolras mention Marius. It hurt to see that Enjolras was more likely to consider someone who didn’t even attend meetings over him.

‘What about me?’ Grantaire said. ‘I am here’.

‘You?’

‘I.’

‘You to indoctrinate republicans! You warm up hearts that have grown cold in the name of principle!’ Enjolras smiled and shook his head. They all knew this was not a job for the cynic of the group.

‘Why not?’

‘You do not believe in anything.’

‘I believe in you.’ Grantaire answered, and this time he was conscious of it.

‘Be serious.’

‘I am wild.’

Enjolras considered whether he should allow Grantaire to do it. He finally decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

‘Grantaire,’ he spoke seriously, ‘I consent to try you. You shall go to the Barriere du Maine.’

*     *     *

Grantaire did not know what to say to them. He could almost quote Enjolras, but he felt his words would be nowhere near as powerful. He was about to turn back, admit he was inadequate and profusely apologise to Enjolras when he thought about what Enjolras had said: _I am sure you can make me believe in you_.

No matter how much of a failure he was, he could not stand to disappoint Enjolras. He had to at least try. However, he was not as charismatic as Enjolras. He knew he could not make a speech during which the whole room would be silent and after which everyone would be inspired. He decided to be more subtle, perhaps play some dominoes and get his ideas across to small groups of people at a time.

In the end, not many people took him seriously, so he decided to go for a more Enjolras-like approach. He could not get silence simply be being there, so he went up to what seemed to be a respected member of the “family” and said he had something important to say to everyone.

The man called for silence and everyone obeyed.

Grantaire was trying to build up confidence. After all, he did not have to light the fire, only “blow on the embers”, as Enjolras had said. A passion existed in these people, it only needed to be reawakened.

‘A revolution is coming.’ Grantaire decided this was the best way to get everyone’s attention. ‘The King’s government is not even seeing us as human anymore. Things are worse than ever. People just like us are dying every day. The only thing that separates us from them is luck. The poor are receiving no help from the rich.’

‘I met a young boy recently who has lived on the streets for a long time, but he has not grown cold. He is kind. He stole some bread and instead of keeping it for himself, he gave it all to the other beggars who were starving. If not for him, who knows how many of them would have been alive today.’

‘It is shameful that they received help not from the rich who have everything, but from a poor boy who has nothing, just like them. We want to build a society that takes that boy as an example. It is clear that will not happen with the current government. This type of change is drastic and demands a revolution. I believe the day of revolution is fast approaching, perhaps even by the start of June.’

‘There is no time to lose. Don’t think that the Government cares about you. We have reason to believe they are poisoning the water, causing the current cholera outbreak. We must rise up now, because how can we be sure we won’t be the next victims?’

Grantaire ended on a rhetorical question, hoping his education about persuasive writing was not wasted. The room was silent. He was unsure whether it was because he had made an impact or failed to do so.

‘Our country awaits you, my friends,’ he said, then he left swiftly and leaned against the wall just outside. He uncorked a bottle of wine with his teeth and started drinking. He had not been drunk when he arrived at Richefeu’s; perhaps that had been a mistake.

He felt a shadow on his face and looked up to see Enjolras. He looked extremely disappointed.

‘Grantaire, what are you doing? Why are you here drinking when you were meant to speak to them?’

‘I did. I think you were right, Enjolras. I really am good for nothing.’

‘That’s not what I said…’

‘Don’t lie, Enjolras. It doesn’t suit you.’

Just then, a young man wearing a cap who seemed to be about nineteen came out of the bar.

‘Monsieur Grantaire, Monsieur Enjolras,’ he nodded, ‘you have my support’.

Grantaire and Enjolras were both staring at him, stunned, as he went back inside.

‘Grantaire, you-‘ Enjolras did not finish because a group of five men came out and declared their support, just as the other one had done.

Next, the older man Grantaire had assumed was the chief joined them.

‘Monsieur,’ he spoke. ‘Thank you for what you have done. I have tried to convince everybody for a long time, and you have managed to change our perspectives in just a few moments. You have all of our support.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur.’ Enjolras took over, as the disbelieving Grantaire was incapable of speech. ‘We greatly appreciate your support and look forward to your cooperation with us when the rebellion comes. Please spread the message to as many people as you can.’

He waited until the man was out of earshot and proceeded to interrogate Grantaire.

‘How did you do that?’

‘I – don’t know. I just tried to do what you do, to tell them why we have a duty to revolt and what might happen if we don’t…’

‘I’m sorry, Grantaire.’

‘What for?’

‘I didn’t believe you could do this. I thought you could change, but I never thought you would have been capable of doing it right now.’

‘That’s alright. Nobody did. I certainly didn’t.’

‘Then we were all wrong.’

‘Come on, Enjolras. There is no way you are admitting you were wrong.’

‘But I just did. And it’s true. Please forgive me.’

‘As far as I’m concerned, there is nothing to forgive. Anything bad you think of me, I deserve it. I am, after all, a drunkard, a cynic and just a nuisance.’

‘You’re not a nuisance, Grantaire. Just look at what you managed to do. And there is not a single person at Les Amis who dislikes you. You are one of us, which is something that Joly, Bossuet and Jehan have seen from the start. I only regret it has taken me longer to notice it. Now I know your intentions are true and you are someone I can trust.’

Grantaire saw this as his opportunity to come clean.

‘Then, would you believe me if I said something which defies all logic?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Joly, Bossuet and Jehan already know this, and I suspect they may have convinced a few of the others.’

‘But what is it?’

‘Do you promise you won’t ridicule me?’

‘I can’t promise that since I do not know what it is, but I will hear you out, even if it seems unlikely.’

‘I’m from the future.’

There was a pause.

‘How far in the future?’

‘Really? Why does everyone react like this? Why don’t you just say “That’s impossible, I don’t believe you” straight away?’

‘Do you want me to ridicule you?’

‘No, but that’s not the point. I want to know if you really do believe me enough to ask the date.’

‘I suppose it would explain your behaviour. Of course it is difficult to believe when it “defies all logic”, like you said, but I am not so small-minded, Grantaire. You of all people should know that.’

‘Then, I’m from 2016. And actually,’ Grantaire said, reaching into his pocket, ‘I may be able to prove it. It all depends on how good the resting battery on this thing is.’

Enjolras stared at him. He started to suspect that he may have been the one who popularised the use of the word “O-K” amongst Les Amis.

Grantaire got his phone out and held down the power button. By some miracle, the phone switched on. He had not used it since he had first shown it to Bossuet and Joly, but that was several weeks before, and there was no telling how much the battery had gone down during that time.

It was at 45%. He had no idea how the battery went down so much while the phone was turned off, but he was grateful it was still charged so he could show Enjolras.

‘Look at this.’ Enjolras took the phone in his hand and held it in a strange way.

‘It is a picture.’ Enjolras said flatly.

‘No, not that! Swipe up.’

Enjolras did so and was visibly shocked.

‘It – changed.’ He handed the phone back. ‘I absolutely believe you.’

‘Wait, you don’t want to see more?’

‘I already believe you. There is no use in that. I would not understand it anyway.’

‘Ok then, but let me try something,’ he said, opening the camera. ‘Smile!’

Of course Enjolras did not smile, but Grantaire took the photo anyway. He looked at it and, of course – Enjolras was photogenic. That was an understatement; the photo was almost as striking as the person.

Without thinking about Enjolras watching him expectantly, he set the photo as his background.

‘There, look.’ He held up the phone to Enjolras, who took a moment to process what he was seeing.

‘Is that- I mean- that’s- me. It’s an impossible portrait of me. How did you do that? So quickly and so accurately, I- I believe you completely.’

Grantaire grinned and took the battery out, hoping that this time it would not go down at all this way.

‘I know what this means, Grantaire. You have a reason for criticising my beliefs. You know the outcome, don’t you? And the outcome is failure.’

‘Yes,’ Grantaire answered, but there was no pride in his voice. ‘I don’t want to be proved right, you know. But I know the facts.’

‘I understand now, Grantaire, really, I do. And I see that I have misjudged you. All this time I thought you didn’t care about anything. But I see that you do care about us; that is why you tried to stop us.’

‘Yes.’

‘It is needless to say that even if everyone had this knowledge, they would not stop. This is something we have dedicated our lives to. We have nothing else.’

‘I understand that, Enjolras. And I share that opinion. If you die, I will follow you.’


	8. "Who are you and what have you done with Enjolras?"

‘Lamarque is dying. This is it,’ Grantaire was saying to everyone gathered round the table. This was Enjolras, Bossuet, Joly, Jehan, Feuilly, Bahorel and Courfeyrac. These were the people who, to his knowledge, knew the truth about Grantaire. They had come to the Musain early and were discussing what was about to happen.

‘We only have a few days left,’ Grantaire continued. ‘His funeral will be on the morning of June the 5th, and that is when the June Rebellion starts.’

‘The June Rebellion?’ Feuilly asked.

‘That’s what it becomes known as. Also, there is meant to be a lone horseman with a red flag who starts it by disrupting the procession, then shouts: “To the barricades!”

‘Who should that be?’ Bahorel asked.

‘Enjolras, obviously.’ Grantaire said.

‘No, Grantaire, I will be elsewhere. I have to direct the building of the barricades.’

‘Yes, about the barricade. Build it by the Corinthe, near Rue Mondetour and Rue de la Chanvrerie.’

‘But isn’t that where we build it historically? And fail?’ Bossuet did not like the look of his chances.

‘Yes, but we held out until the morning of June the 6th. I think we were one of the last barricades. I know the outcome of building the barricade there. I don’t know what will happen if we build it somewhere else.’

‘Grantaire is right,’ Enjolras decided. ‘We should not change our plans just to try and avoid our impending doom.’

‘I thought you were an optimist, Enjolras.’

‘No, I am an idealist. But if death is what history has in store for us, I will not fight it.’

‘That sounds like you have given up!’ Grantaire protested. ‘You can’t do that! I’m meant to be the one who does that and you scold me for it.’

‘I have not given up, Grantaire. I have accepted my fate and I attempt make the most of the time we have left by fighting for freedom.’

Everyone echoed that sentiment.

‘I won’t blame you if you leave now, Grantaire.’

‘Never. Don’t ever forget what I told you.’ He made eye contact.

Enjolras nodded.

Everyone else at the table was confused but decided not to pry. Just yet.

‘But Enjolras, I disagree with you,’ Jehan said. It was rare that anyone but Grantaire disagreed with Enjolras, especially shy Jehan.

‘What about?’ Enjolras asked curiously, without resentment.

‘The horseman. I think he is very important. If he is one of the few things that are known about the rebellion, it is important we take care of it.’

‘It’s exactly the type of pointless thing we could have had that Pontmercy do, if he was not otherwise occupied.’

‘You still misunderstand, Enjolras.’ This time it was Courfeyrac that disagreed. ‘If this is meant to be the symbol of the rebellion, I definitely do not want Marius to do it. While we all love him, he is entirely unsuited for this job. He has not even been coming to meetings.’ Enjolras still did not look convinced. Courfeyrac considered what to say for a second. ‘He loves Cosette more than France.’

This aggravated Enjolras.

‘You are right. We need someone that represents the ideals of the rebellion.’

‘I know one person.’ Grantaire smiled.

He left and minutes later he returned with a grinning Gavroche.

‘I’m going to ride a horse?’ he said excitedly. Enjolras looked stupefied while everyone else present was dying of laughter.

‘And wave the flag! Isn’t that right, Enjolras?’ Grantaire challenged the blonde man.

It seemed that Enjolras’ reaction was not what he had expected. His stunned look slowly turned into a wide smile, one that was very rare on Enjolras’ face.

‘Yes, Grantaire! This is perfect! Gavroche represents the revolution perfectly! He knows life’s hardships but he still helps others.’

‘So, um, how are we going to teach him how to ride a horse? And where will we get a horse?’

‘A friend of mine lives on a farm near here. He supports the rebellion so I am sure he will be happy to help.’ Feuilly said.

‘Perfect. Now, any other ideas for symbols of the revolution?’

‘What if we wrote a song?’ Jehan asked.

‘Are you out of your mind, Jehan?’ Bahorel said. ‘Enjolras will find that even more pointless that the horseman.’

‘No, actually, I am seeing this in a new light. Songs can be powerful, like puns. If everyone knows it, it can bring people together. Like La Marseillaise. I leave the writing of it to you, Prouvaire.’

‘Oh, I’ve already written it.’

Joly laughed. ‘Sing it, then!’

When he sang, Jehan’s soft, timid voice suddenly became more masculine.

_Do you hear the people sing?_

_Singing the song of angry men?_

_It is the music of a people_

_Who will not be slaves again._

_When the beating of your heart_

_Echoes the beating of the drums_

_There is a life about to start_

_When tomorrow comes!_

 

‘That is amazing, Jehan!’ Grantaire was astonished. ‘It makes me want to join. Wait – how about having a verse to get people to take part?’

‘I’m already ahead of you,’ Jehan answered and continued to sing the song.

 

_Will you join in our crusade?_

_Who will be strong and stand with me?_

_Beyond the barricade_

_Is there a world you long to see?_

_Then join in the fight_

_That will give you the right to be free!_

_Do you hear the people sing?_

_Singing the song of angry men?_

_It is the music of a people_

_Who will not be slaves again._

_When the beating of your heart_

_Echoes the beating of the drums_

_There is a life about to start_

_When tomorrow comes!_

_Will you give all you give_

_So that our banner may advance?_

_Some will fall and some will live,_

_Will you stand up and take your chance?_

_The blood of the martyrs_

_Will water the meadows of France!_

There was a pause, then Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire started to cheer. Everyone joined in.

‘What is going on here?’ Combeferre asked as he entered the café.

‘I wrote a song and we’re going to use it as a hymn!’ Jehan was beaming.

‘And I’m going to ride a horse and wave a flag!’ Gavroche chipped in.

Combeferre was thoroughly confused.

‘Was this your idea, Enjolras?’ he asked doubtfully.

‘We all thought of it together,’ Enjolras smiled. This type of light-hearted behaviour really was odd for him.

‘You have not missed anything. In today’s meeting we will be learning to sing it.’

Combeferre’s jaw dropped.

‘Who are you and what have you done with Enjolras?’

However, this was not fully a joke.

Everyone suddenly realised Combeferre was the only one of their friends who did not know the truth about Grantaire. Enjolras was about to speak when the tiny figure of Gavroche ran up to Combeferre.

‘I think you may not be in on this, Combeferre. Grantaire is from the future and this is proof,’ he passed Combeferre Grantaire’s phone, which Grantaire was sure had been in his pocket.

‘Right…’ Combeferre seemed doubtful. He looked up and stared at his friends, all looking at him. ‘Wait, you’re serious?’

‘Press the button on the side and swipe up.’ Bossuet said. Then he turned to Gavroche.

‘Go catch it,’ he whispered.

A sharp intake of air was heard, then a soft thud as Gavroche landed by Combeferre’s feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Chapter Nine will be up next week, so au revoir! :)


	9. The Morning of June 5th, 1832

It was ten o’clock in the evening on June 4th. Grantaire was in his apartment, as was usual at this time. Except today, he had company.

Across from him sat Monsieur Dubois, and in the room next door was Gavroche with his two little friends.

‘I should get going,’ the old man said, getting up with difficulty. ‘With what is happening tomorrow, I suppose this is our last chance to get any sleep.’

‘Stay the night here, Monsieur. I have a spare room with a bed in it, and from here we can quickly join the action.’

‘That does seem logical. Thank you for your hospitality.’

Grantaire went into the next room to check on the young boys. They were all curled up on the bed, both younger boys asleep on either of Gavroche’s shoulders.

The gamin looked up and spoke to Grantaire in a gentle voice, not to wake his ‘children’.

‘Why have you taken us in tonight?’

The real reason was so that Grantaire could keep a close eye on Gavroche. He was the one who decided the boy should be the horseman, but on deeper reflection, he realised Gavroche would want to join them at the barricades, risking his life. He knew there was no way of convincing Gavroche to stay, so he wanted to at least keep an eye on him and try to protect him.

‘Oh… I thought you might not know where to go and when, so I can show you tomorrow and tell you what your cue is. And I have space here, so it makes no sense to make you and your friends starve on the street when I can help.’

‘Thank you, Grantaire.’ Gavroche was grateful, but still regarded him with a suspicious eye. ‘I can manage on my own, though. I’ve never moved in with any of the others. And this is just for tonight, anyway. I only said yes because of them.’ He flicked his head at the smaller boys.

‘Goodnight, Gavroche.’ Grantaire shut the door and realised he had nowhere to sleep. Looking around the apartment he saw a bottle of wine unopened on the table.

‘Well then,’ he muttered to himself, ‘wine shall be my mattress’.

*     *     *

Grantaire was woken up by the sound of Dubois getting out of bed. The old man was somehow able to wake up when he needed to, while Grantaire had always used an alarm clock.

He quickly splashed some water on his face and tried to look as if he hadn’t spent the whole night on the floor.

‘I should wake Gavroche up!’ he said, darting into the room next door. As he opened the door he almost collided with Gavroche, who looked well rested and cheerful.

‘Shush, you’ll wake the boys up,’ he whispered, and walked past Grantaire. ‘Are we leaving now?’

‘Well…’ Grantaire considered what to do. Mobile phones made arrangements much easier. ‘It will probably be a while before anything happens, but I suppose I could leave you with the others and then meet Joly and Bossuet, as I had arranged. I think they will be in the Musain. Yes, we didn’t arrange where to meet yesterday and that would be the obvious meeting spot. Let’s go!’

Grantaire left, preceded by Gavroche and followed by Dubois. The Musain was indeed very close, so even going at the old man’s speed they made it there in less than five minutes. Gavroche was obviously very excited and impatient, but he managed to keep quiet. Once they reached the door, Gavroche sprinted up the steps.

Inside, there were more people than usual. They were all standing over maps, making last minute plans. Enjolras stood out immediately, having some serious-looking conversation with two others Grantaire did not know.

‘Ah, Grantaire!’ Courfeyrac grinned as he caught sight of the man. ‘And little Gavroche!’

Even amidst the noise of the crowd, a distinct “I’m not so little” was heard.

‘And you are, Monsieur?’

Jehan had joined them.

‘This, Courfeyrac, is Monsieur Dubois. He owns the archives and is a good friend of Monsieur Mabeuf.’

The men shook hands.

Jehan steered Grantaire towards Enjolras.

‘I suppose you are going to join Joly and Bossuet at the Corinthe?’

‘Yes. Would you- would you like to come with us?’ Grantaire smiled invitingly.

‘Well, I… Why not?’

‘Ok, I’ll just let Enjolras know about Gavroche.’

They went up to Enjolras and, both of them too shy to interrupt, waited until he turned his attention to them.

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve brought Gavroche with me. Is it alright to leave him here? Will they tell him what to do?’

‘Yes, we’ve been waiting for him. Where are you going?’

‘I arranged to meet Joly and Bossuet in the Corinthe.’

‘Ah, yes. For “breakfast”’.

‘You can’t start a revolution on an empty stomach.’ Grantaire smiled and walked away.

‘But apparently you can on a head full of wine,’ Enjolras muttered as they retreated and shook his head.

*     *     *

By the time they got to the Corinthe, it was ten past nine, so Grantaire was only slightly late. Upon finding no one downstairs, they went up to the first floor and found that their friends were the only customers there.

They were sitting at a table, with oysters, cheese, ham and a bottle of wine. They hadn’t noticed Grantaire so he spoke up.

‘I was passing. I smelt in the street a delicious odour of Brie cheese. I have come in.’

‘Grantaire, we were expecting you!’ Bossuet said, an oyster in his mouth.

‘Add Jehan, our friend the boet!’ Joly added. ‘Whad a bleasant surbrise!’ Joly, with a stopped up head, sounded quite similar to Bossuet with his mouth full.

As Grantaire and Jehan sat down, Fricassee placed three more bottles on the table. Grantaire claimed two of these.

‘Are you going to drink those two bottles?’ Laigle asked.

‘That is my intention.’

Joly, Bossuet and Jehan started to eat, while Grantaire began to drink. In under a minute, half a bottle of wine was gone.

‘Have you a hole in your stomach?’ Laigle continued to question Grantaire.

‘You surely have one in your elbow,’ Grantaire replied, but did not comment further on the state of Bossuet’s coat.

Suddenly, he noticed something strange. All the bottles had gone from the table, except for Joly and Bossuet’s empty bottle and the one he held in his hand.

‘Where has all the wine gone?’ He was confused and horrified at the same time.

Prouvaire was not making eye contact. Grantaire narrowed his eyes and bored into Jehan until he had to look up.

‘Was it you?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said unconvincingly.

‘I’m warning you…’

Anger flashed in Jehan’s eyes for a second, and his tone became much more assertive.

‘You should not be drinking this.’ Abruptly, he sprang forward and snatched Grantaire’s bottle out of his clutch. He tipped it over and the other three watched in shock as the blood-red contents of it poured out onto the floor.

Before anyone could say anything more, a small boy of less than ten years, evidently a gamin addressed Bossuet.

‘Are you Monsieur Bossuet?’ He asked.

‘That is my nickname,’ Bossuet answered. ‘What do you want of me?’

‘This is it. A big light-complexioned fellow on the boulevard said to me: Do you know Mother Hucheloup? I said: Yes, Rue de la Chanvrerie, the widow of the old man. He said to me: Go there. You will find Monsieur Bossuet there, and you will tell him from me: A-B-C. It is a joke that somebody is playing on you, isn’t it? He gave me ten sous.’

‘Joly, lend me ten sous,’ said Laigle, and turning towards Grantaire: ‘Grantaire, lend me ten sous.’ He knew there was no point in asking Prouvaire as he rarely carried any money on him. Bossuet handed the twenty sous to the gamin.

‘Thank you, monsieur.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Navet, Gavroche’s friend.’

‘Stop with us,’ Laigle said.

‘Breakfast with us,’ Grantaire said.

‘I can’t,’ the boy answered, ‘I am with the procession, I am the one to cry “Down with Polignac”’.

He scraped his foot on the ground as he turned away and left.

The previous situation resumed.

‘What the hell, Jehan? That is a waste of good wine,’ Grantaire shook his head.

‘But we have waited for this so long. You would have passed out and missed everything.’

‘Whatever,’ Grantaire waved his hand dismissively. ‘Fine, I will not have any more. I will be painfully aware of the whole thing.’

Meanwhile, Bossuet was thinking of the boy’s message.

‘A-B-C, that is to say: Lamarque’s funeral.’

‘The big light-complexioned man,’ Grantaire said, ‘is Enjolras, who sent to notify you.’

‘Ob course that’s what notice,’ Joly rolled his eyes.

‘Shall we go?’ Bossuet asked.

‘It raids,’ Joly said, ‘I have sword to go through fire, dot water. I dod’t wadt to catch cold.’

‘I prefer breakfast to a hearse,’ Grantaire remarked.

‘Wait!’ Jehan called out. ‘Why don’t you want to take part? This is history, you said so yourself.’ He lowered his voice in case Fricassee or Chowder could overhear them. ‘You of all people should be interested. This is your only chance to see what it was really like, something you read about in history books.’

‘Why are you so authoritative lately?’ Grantaire groaned. ‘You’re right, though. Of course you’re right. Well, my friends, finish up and let’s go.’

Grantaire was left with Jehan staring at him.

‘Enjolras despises me,’ he said to Jehan.

‘How so?’ Jehan was confused.

‘He didn’t know you were with us. He said Joly is sick. Grantaire is drunk. It was to Bossuet that he sent Navet. If he had come for me I would have decided to follow him of my own accord.’

‘But… you were drunk… You were going to drink four times as much as you have.’

‘Then Enjolras is right,’ Grantaire admitted sadly. ‘Come on, let’s go and see this procession’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, we've arrived at June 5th. Next chapter, Revolution!


	10. Songs of Freedom

There was a lot of commotion. At the Place de la Bastille, where the coffin had been taken by the revolutionaries, speeches were being made. Grantaire zoned out for most of them, but became much more aware when he heard the sound of a single horse. He smiled and looked up to see Gavroche on the back of an enormous black horse. It seemed even bigger in comparison to the little gamin riding it.

‘He looks like he’s enjoying himself!’ Courfeyrac said to Grantaire. Because of the noise from the crowd he had to shout even though he was standing right next to him.

‘Yeah.’ Grantaire was slightly worried for the boy. He hoped there were no unscrupulous soldiers around who would shoot him because he was a catalyst, not even caring about his age.

Just then, Gavroche raised the red flag and shouted the message it bore: ‘La Liberté ou La Mort!’

Grantaire found himself surrounded by the remaining members of Les Amis. There were more people there that he didn’t know, but he recognised some from Richefeu’s. His eyes met Jehan’s, and the latter nodded. They started to sing. A considerable amount of people joined in – it seemed Les Amis had a lot of connections whom they had taught the song to.

When it was over, multiple voices shouted ‘To the barricades!’

Grantaire was about to follow most of the crowd when Enjolras put his hand on his shoulder.

‘No, we’re not going with them. They’re going to run into the National Guard and fighting will break out. We need to go the other way and build our barricade so we’re ready for their attack.’

‘Ok, I’ll just get Gavroche. Don’t worry, I know my way to the Corinthe very well.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ Enjolras smirked.

Gavroche ran up to Grantaire almost as soon as Enjolras turned around.

‘Come on, what are you waiting for?’ Gavroche was almost jumping up with excitement. ‘Let’s go!’

It was too late to do anything. Grantaire had to take Gavroche along and pray that nothing would happen to him.

They caught up with Bahorel, who was crouching at the corner of a building.

‘Whatcha doing, Bahorel?’ The man hadn’t noticed the boy creep up behind him and turned round, startled.

‘Oh, it’s you two,’ he said with obvious relief. ‘See that cart there? It’s carrying lime. I reckon we can tip it over and add the barrels to the barricade.’

On Bahorel’s command, the three of them jumped out onto the street and overturned the poor man’s cart. It contained three barrels that they took to the barricade.

Already, it was impressive. It was almost as tall as Bahorel, after only ten minutes. There was an atmosphere of indescribable solidarity and passion as the barricade grew stronger and taller.

Thanks to Bossuet’s efforts an omnibus was added to the structure. Grantaire caught sight of Enjolras, standing on the crest of the barricade. At first he did not want to ruin the majestic scene but his need to see him was too strong so he climbed up the barricade and stood behind him.

‘You came then,’ Enjolras spoke quietly.

‘You thought I would abandon you?’

‘No,’ he turned to face Grantaire. ‘But I am relieved that you are here now.’

Grantaire could not hide how happy those words made him feel.

‘You see, Enjolras,’ he was being half-serious. ‘I am capable of something.’

‘I never doubted it. But you are sober, I see. That is a surprise.”

‘No one is more surprised than myself,’ Grantaire grinned. ‘We have Jehan to thank for that.’

The rain stopped and new recruits arrived.

‘Look there!’ Enjolras was excited. ‘These men have brought gunpowder.’

‘This is really happening, isn’t it?’ Grantaire said to himself. ‘Many are going to die’.

‘I know, Grantaire, but sacrifices have to be made.’

‘You mean dying?’

‘I mean killing.’

There was a bleak pause. Combeferre and Courfeyrac climbed up onto the barricade and stood facing the other two men. They were energised and out of breath at the same time.

‘Enjolras! The barricade in Rue Mondétour is going well! And this one is almost finished.’

‘It is only missing one thing,’ Combeferre added, and produced from behind his back an impressive red flag. He tossed it over to Grantaire.

‘Will you do us the honour?’ he winked at Enjolras and passed him the flag. After a moment’s hesitation, the man took a deep breath and took the fabric in his right hand. He laid his left hand on top of Grantaire’s for a moment – they silently consented that this was it; the act of putting up the flag was the final admission of their obligation. They could only go forward from this point.

‘I will accept this honour for my motherland.’ Enjolras took the flag and walked towards the centre of the barricade, trying to find the perfect spot.

Grantaire was left staring in awe at his hand, still feeling Enjolras’ on his own.

‘Aha!’ Grantaire looked up to see Enjolras triumphant, having tied the flag to the pole of the omnibus at the very centre of the barricade. Then it felt complete.

They all noticed Gavroche, moving around the place with the energy and speed of a fly. Grantaire called him over, although Gavroche seemed to be asking something of all the revolutionaries he passed. They all smirked and shook their head.

‘A musket! I want a musket! Why don’t you give me a musket?’ his voice reached their ears.

‘A musket for you?’ Combeferre said.

‘Well?’ Gavroche answered, ‘why not? I had one in 1830, in the dispute with Charles X.’

Enjolras was about to say something, but Grantaire got there first.

‘Even I don’t have one yet. As soon as there’s a free one you can have it.’

Gavroche turned to Enjolras.

‘If you are killed before me, I will take yours.’

‘Gamin!’ Enjolras exclaimed in indignation.

‘Smooth-face!’ Gavroche retorted and disappeared before Enjolras could react.

Enjolras stared after him slightly dumbstruck while Grantaire was bursting his sides laughing.

*     *     *

They dragged a table out of the wine-shop; it was one Grantaire had often sat at, and it looked very out of place. Enjolras brought out a square box which Courfeyrac opened, revealing the cartridges inside. He smiled as he distributed them. Everyone was assigned thirty. As Enjolras passed by Grantaire, he hesitated for a moment, then walked on without giving Grantaire his share. Grantaire felt simultaneously relieved and disappointed. Did Enjolras not think him worth wasting cartridges on?

The leader placed sentinels on three different streets. He was looking around for a man he could spare to stand guard at la Petite Truanderie, when he noticed Grantaire looking lost. He motioned for him to follow.

When they reached the corner they seemed to be a great distance away from the preparations at the barricade.

‘You are wondering, perhaps, why I did not give you a musket or ammunition.’ Enjolras voiced Grantaire’s thoughts directly. ‘I know you are perfectly capable of fighting, and would do your share if it came to it, but I know you don’t want to.’

‘I don’t. But you don’t either, do you?’

‘No, Grantaire, of course I don’t. But it is my duty to France, to defend Liberty, Equality and Fraternity’.

‘Is that not my duty as well?’

‘You are from a different time. I imagine it is peaceful, otherwise I don’t believe you could be complacent with it. I have to accept fighting because it is necessary, but you have been raised your whole life never needing to fight. I can’t expect you to do it now.’

‘How else can I help?’

‘You can be a sentinel here some of the time, and you can help make ammunition and tend to the wounded. I assure you, you will be needed.’

‘Thank you, Enjolras.’ Grantaire was grateful to the man who always showed him kindness. He only wished he could have been more liked by him before the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is getting really sad to write because it's approaching the end. Not long now! :'(


	11. Executioner

Night was falling on the barricade. Enjolras was watching the sentinels, the men making cartridges and the women making lint in silence. He saw all that passed but it was as if he was looking through someone else’s eyes – it felt like he was not fully there.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw his friends making their way into the Café, ready to chat and laugh, as if it were just an ordinary evening. He wanted to join them, he really did, but he hated to admit that he was afraid. He was afraid of what was to come, for them, and for himself.

It grieved him to stay away from them, but he had to. He could not let them see that he was afraid. He himself had believed his title of the fearless leader, and he knew if he went there he would be proved wrong. Not by his friends, but by himself. And he never wanted to admit that he was wrong. In truth, he had done that only once.

Involuntarily, his head turned towards the café. Yellow light streamed out through the window, making the interior of the Corinthe stand out against the inky sky. Seated right by the window, in perfect view, was Grantaire. Even from that distance, his face was completely visible. He was smiling, even laughing with the others, although his eyes were constantly glancing to the side, as if he was looking for something.

 _He’s looking for me_ , Enjolras thought. He was immediately ashamed of how arrogant that thought seemed, but he knew it was true. For some reason, Grantaire was always-

‘What are you doing here?’ Combeferre’s voice startled him, interrupting his thought.

‘I…’ Enjolras could not speak. He felt a throbbing sensation in his throat and his eyes started to cloud over. He knew what was happening, and he could not let it happen, so he blinked ferociously.

‘Come join us,’ Bossuet had also come up to Enjolras.

Still afraid that if he started to speak he would break down, he kept silent and shook his head.

Joly had appeared as well, wondering where his best friend had gone. He took one look at the situation and understood.

‘Combeferre, go back inside,’ he spoke to the other man with surprising authority. Combeferre did not fully understand what was happening to Enjolras, but he saw that the others understood it better, so he obeyed and walked back to the café hurriedly.

‘Is this about him?’ Bossuet asked.

Enjolras looked up at them wide-eyed. He regained some of his composure and decided he was able to speak.

‘Yes, I suppose, but not just that. I’m scared. For all of you.’

This admission did indeed shock Joly and Bossuet, but they nodded. It was perfectly understandable.

‘Would it have been different if you didn’t know the outcome?’

‘I don’t know. I’m the one who dragged you all into this. And I know you made your choice, just as I made mine, but I will still feel guilty whatever you say.’

‘But Enjolras, at least you’re not tricking us. We know we’re all going to die.’

‘Aren’t you scared of your death?’ Enjolras asked, already knowing the answer.

‘No. Are you?’

‘No. Not of my own, anyway.’

‘Then come inside. You know we’re safe for now. Even if they do attack, we have sentries. You have to understand that, for once, you don’t have to do everything by yourself,’ Joly said. ‘Right, Bossuet?’

‘Right. And since we know we don’t have much time left, why don’t we use it well, rather than dreading what is inevitable?’

Enjolras knew they were right. He just needed one last push.

‘Go to him, Enjolras.’

That was all the encouragement he needed. He got up and followed them inside. Apart from Combeferre, who was studying the trio with his eyes as they came in and trying to figure out what had passed, no one noticed that anything was wrong.

There was, conveniently, an empty seat beside Grantaire. He sat on it immediately and locked eyes with him.

‘Are you alright?’ Grantaire asked in a low tone.

‘I’m Oh-Kay.’ Grantaire’s face lit up and, for once, he believed it when someone said those words. He took a sip from his cup. When he set it down Enjolras saw that the liquid in it was clear. His brow furrowed in confusion. Had Grantaire found some spirits?

‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking, Enjolras,’ Grantaire teased with perfect timing. ‘It’s water’.

‘Water?’ Enjolras refused to believe it and drank from the cup. Grantaire was telling the truth.

‘Yup. And, surprisingly, I’m ok too.’ They both beamed.

‘You know, I was never an alcoholic before I met those two.’ He glanced implicitly at Joly and Bossuet, who waved back with a grin, apparently understanding what he had said.

‘I’m glad.’ Enjolras sighed with relief. ‘I’m so, so glad.’

*     *     *

‘Why don’t they just attack us?’ Enjolras groaned.

‘Are you bored or impatient?’ chuckled Grantaire.

‘Both?’

‘Well, I can think of one person who can offer a distraction.’

They went down to the basement in search of Gavroche. They found his cartridges abandoned, and the gamin himself was standing on his heels, his hands in his pockets, his neck twisted and a strange grimace on his face.

Enjolras, apparently, had not noticed this.

‘Ah, Gavroche!’ He turned to Grantaire. ‘He’ll be happy: I have a use for him.’

‘Wait.’ Grantaire extended his arm to gently block Enjolras’ way. ‘Look at him.’

‘Well?’

‘He’s obviously preoccupied with something.’

They followed his gaze and saw that he was staring at a big man, with a musket between his knees, who looked as if he was lost in thought.

‘Gamin,’ Enjolras spoke to the boy in a low tone, ‘what is it about that man?’

‘How did you- well, he is a spy.’

‘You are sure?’

‘It isn’t a fortnight ago that he pulled me by the ear off the cornice of the Pont Royal where I was taking the air.’

Enjolras left hastily, and Grantaire followed.

‘Get backup. We have a spy,’ Enjolras murmured to a working-man, who left and came back with three other broad-shouldered men. They all positioned themselves around the “spy”, ready to take action.

Enjolras went up to the man.

‘Who are you?’

The man started and met Enjolras’ eyes. He smiled disdainfully, energetically and resolutely.

‘I see how it is. Well, yes!’

‘You are a spy?’

‘I am an officer of the government.’ Grantaire failed to see why the man would reveal himself.

‘Your name is?’

‘Javert.’

At a sign from Enjolras, the four men threw themselves at Javert, binding him and searching his pockets.

From what Grantaire could see, they found something like a business card on him, along with a purse and a watch. In his pocket there was also an envelope.

Enjolras opened it and read out the writing on the paper inside.

‘”As soon as his political mission is fulfilled, Inspector Javert will ascertain, by a special examination, whether it be true that malefactors have resorts on the slope of the right bank of the Seine, near the bridge of Jena.”’

They tied Javert’s arms behind his back and fastened him to the post in the middle of the basement room.

Gavroche went up the now powerless spy.

‘The mouse has caught the cat.’

The other revolutionaries ran into the room to see what was happening. Javert did not make a sound, and held his head high. Grantaire admired him. It was a shame he meant them harm.

‘It is a spy,’ Enjolras said by means of explanation.

The others slowly went back to their posts. Enjolras turned to Javert.

‘You will be shot ten minutes before the barricade is taken.’

‘Why not immediately?’ Javert asked, rather than protest or stay silent.

 _He is really something_ , thought Grantaire.

‘We are economising powder.’

‘Then do it with a knife.’

_Does he **want** to die?_

‘Spy,’ Enjolras declared with grandeur but humanity, ‘we are judges, not assassins.’

‘You!’ he spoke to Gavroche, ‘you are small. Take a look at what is happening around the houses and streets and report back to me.’

‘Little folks are good for something then! I am going!’ He started to leave but stopped immediately. ‘By the way, you will give me his musket! I leave you the musician, but I want the clarinet.’ He saluted and disappeared.

A moment later, Monsieur Dubois ran into the room, as fast as his age would permit him.

‘Oh! Monsieur Grantaire!’ He noticed the golden-haired man. ‘And…’ he cast a quick glance between Enjolras and Grantaire and nodded. ‘Monsieur Enjolras, I presume?’

‘What is it?’ The two men said almost in unison.

‘There is a man who calls himself one of us and he is attacking the inhabitants!’

Grantaire had never seen Enjolras so sprightly. He shot out of the Corinthe like a bullet and witnessed the spectacle.

The man in question’s back was turned to him, so he continued his assault uninterrupted. He was now pointing his musket at a porter, who was not even aware of the danger he was in.

‘Yes, or no, will you open?’

‘No, messieurs!’

‘You say no?’ This seemed to be the final warning. Enjolras advanced forward.

‘I say no, my good-‘

The gunshot went off. Enjolras’ hand had grasped the man’s shoulder, but that hadn’t stopped him. However, the porter was unharmed. When looking around to see where the bullet had gone, Grantaire’s friend caught his eye. He was stooping over, his hand pressed against his arm. Blood streaked from between his fingers.

He looked as if was losing his balance, so Enjolras rushed forwards and wrapped his arms around the man’s torso. Grantaire quickly aided him and together they lifted him onto a table sticking out from the barricade.

Having heard the gunshot, the remaining Les Amis ran to the barricade in distress. Combeferre examined Dubois’ wound and consulted Joly.

‘It is not serious,’ he stated, to everybody’s relief, ‘however we need to stop the bleeding and make sure it is not infected. Bring some cloth.’

Even though he had heard Combeferre’s announcement, Grantaire’s heart was pounding and he refused to leave Dubois’ side.

‘Grantaire? Grantaire!’ Enjolras shook him by the shoulders. Grantaire looked up in response.

‘Everything is under control. Now move away and let them tend to his wound.’

Grantaire nodded and moved away, staggering.

Enjolras stared at him with his eagle eyes, deciding he must be in some kind of shock. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he led Grantaire to corner of La Petite Truanderie, the same place as they had spoken earlier that night.

Not knowing what to say, he took out a flask and held it up to Grantaire.

‘Joly said this might help?’

‘Enjolras, I don’t recognise you!’ Grantaire seemed to have got over his initial state of shock. ‘But no. You have taught me this is not the right way to deal with things.’

‘I don’t recognise you either.’ After this, the next few moments passed in silence.

‘I know what you’re thinking: how will I be able to witness deaths at the barricade if I can’t even take one mild injury? But the truth is, Monsieur Dubois is one of the first people I met here, and one of my best friends. This has made me see that… that we’re mortal. _All_ of us.’ He looked meaningfully at Enjolras with this last sentence. ‘And that it’s real. This is the closest to death I’ve ever seen. It must be different for you, growing up in a society where it is normal for people to suffer and die on the streets.’

Grantaire had expressed all that Enjolras might have wished to say.

‘What I’m thinking,’ he chose his words carefully, ‘is that Monsieur Dubois is an admirable man. And you can tell a lot about a person by their friends.’

‘How is it that you always know just what to say?’ Grantaire smiled, wiping away tears he was unaware that he had shed. He was upset about Dubois, but he knew that was not the cause. It must have been something subconscious during his and Enjolras’ conversation.

‘But,’ he continued, ‘what is it that you are going to do with the would-be murderer?’

Enjolras’ expression turned dark. He was about to voice his rage and the punishment he felt was just, but then he saw a look of dread in Grantaire’s eyes. It was the same look he had seen not long before, when he was speaking to Javert.

‘You do not want me to become an executioner, do you?’

Grantaire kept still, but the look on his face was unmistakeable.

‘I saw your face when I was telling the spy his fate. Are you scared for my soul, Grantaire?’ he said almost mockingly. ‘Funny. I would not have thought you believed in Heaven.’

‘Maybe not for me. But for you.’

Enjolras was unsure what this cryptic answer meant.

‘Fine,’ he replied after a moment’s consideration. ‘I will not kill him. Honestly, I am grateful you stopped me. I don’t think he deserves mercy, but perhaps he will get what is coming to him from the National Guard. I will have him thrown out from the barricade.’

Enjolras was aware, although he did not like it, of how much control he had over Grantaire. As much as he despised the idea, he knew that at his command Grantaire would do almost anything. However, Enjolras was also aware of something the other man was not: how much hold Grantaire had over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter is the longest so far and, as you probably noticed, was slightly more from Enjolras' point of view. I just started it like that and decided to go with it. Also, it's been my favourite to write so far (I've discovered that listening to The Piano Guys while writing makes it so much better). This should be wrapped up in two or three more chapters, and I cannot wait to write the last one! Have a good week :)


	12. An Exchange

‘Go. Now.’ Enjolras pointed a pistol at Le Cabuc’s head.

‘But they will attack any second. If I leave now I may die.’

‘And if you do not, you will surely die.’ Enjolras cocked the pistol and stared at the coward defiantly.

Le Cabuc lifted his hands in the air as if in surrender and turned around. They let him out through an opening and closed it immediately.

After listening for a few moments in silence, they only heard receding footsteps and stifled whimpers, but no shots.

‘It looks like he got lucky,’ Enjolras said bitterly.

‘I’m not sure about that. He still has a long way to go before he’s safe,’ Feuilly spoke.

The clock of Saint Merry struck ten, and still there was no sign of any attack. Combeferre hovered for a moment by where Enjolras was sitting with Grantaire, then seemed to think better of it and re-joined Jean Prouvaire. The poet smiled when he saw him and started to tell him about a poem he was writing.

‘I hope it survives longer than we do,’ Combeferre remarked darkly but humorously at the same time.

‘I thought of that. That’s why I’m carving it onto this.’ With difficulty, he lifted a paving stone and pointed out the words on it to Combeferre. ‘See? Blood will only make it more visible.’

‘How is it that you can always brighten my day?’ Combeferre chuckled at him, shaking his head.

‘It’s a gift,’ Jehan grinned.

On the other side of Enjolras and Grantaire, Joly sat with Bossuet. They were, very indiscreetly, observing the other two. Enjolras and Grantaire tried to ignore it, but exchanged exasperated glances when Bossuet whispered something to his companion and they burst out laughing.

‘Let’s place a bet,’ Bossuet had said.

‘I’m listening,’ Joly’s eyes lit up.

‘I bet we’re gonna see them kiss before this time tomorrow.’

‘Ha! Yeah, right.’

‘You’ll bet against me, then?’

‘My pleasure. I know Enjolras, although maybe not as well as I thought. If they do kiss, we won’t know about it.’

‘I bet you a bottle of the finest wine Corinthe has to offer.’

‘Two.’

‘Deal’. The men shook hands and then resumed pointing out constellations to each other.

Feuilly and Bahorel were standing guard at the small barricade. There had been some sentinels there, but the two students were happy to do them a favour and stand in for them while they had a drink in the Corinthe with their friends.

Feuilly was trying to make a fan out of splinters of wood he found around the barricade and was surprisingly successful at it.

Bahorel was cracking his knuckles and leaning forward slightly, as if he was already in a one-on-one fight.

‘Relax, Bahorel. When the attack comes, I’m sure we will know.’

‘Aren’t you a little too relaxed?’

‘Maybe. An ideal state would probably be about halfway between us. Take a seat.’

Bahorel begrudgingly sat down on the ground next to Feuilly, with his back against the barricade. He was still restless, so the fan-maker made him hold the pieces he was using for the makeshift fan.

Back by the opening of the barricade, Enjolras sat with Grantaire. They were silent, listening out for sounds of marching, although they seemed to communicate with glances. Grantaire now had a gun. He was not happy about it, but he needed to look as if he was fighting, even if he did not intend to injure anyone with it.

Just then, the whole barricade heard Gavroche’s voice, singing a few lines of a song. Enjolras started and gripped Grantaire’s wrist tightly.

‘It’s Gavroche!’ Grantaire whispered.

‘He is warning us.’

Gavroche bounded into the barricade and ran up to the leader.

‘My musket!’ he cried, breathless. ‘Here they are.’

In the background they heard a shuffling sound, as everyone hurried to get to their muskets.

‘Do you want my carbine?’ Enjolras asked.

‘I want the big musket,’ Gavroche insisted, taking Javert’s musket.

Everyone took their positions. The continuous sound of marching was terrifying. Then a voice, whose owner could not be seen, spoke.

‘Who is there?’ This was accompanied by the click of muskets.

Enjolras was the one to answer.

‘French Revolution!’

Despite the extreme seriousness of the situation, Grantaire could not hide his smile as he thought _French Revolution who?_

The smile was quickly wiped off his face when he heard the voice’s reply.

‘Fire!’ A volley of shots followed with a blinding flash. Some of the balls ricocheted from the houses and injured several men. Fortunately, as far as anyone could see, no one had yet been killed.

‘Comrades,’ Courfeyrac announced, ‘don’t waste the powder. Let us wait to reply till they come into the street.’

‘And first of all,’ Enjolras said, ‘let us hoist the flag again!’

No one volunteered. As Enjolras was about to speak again, Grantaire silenced him.

‘Enjolras, this is stupid! The flag is just a symbol. While it is important, we can hoist it up later, not now. This would be a pointless thing to waste a life for.’

Enjolras stopped himself from repeating the order, however an old man who had exited the wine-shop walked up to Enjolras.

‘It is the Voter! It is the Conventionist! It is the Representative of the people!’ The insurgents cried.

Monsieur Dubois, with his arm in a sling, ran out after him.

‘My friend Mabeuf, do not do this! It is suicide!’

Mabeuf did not hear either of these cries. He took the flag from Enjolras, who was too astounded to stop him, and slowly climbed up the barricade.

‘Hats off!’ somebody cried and everyone wearing a hat, which, admittedly, was not a great number, obeyed.

He was on the crest of the barricade, holding onto the post of the omnibus to steady himself. ‘Vive la révolution! Vive la république! Fraternity! Equality! And death!”

‘Disperse!’ cried the same ominous voice from before.

Mabeuf, insanity in his eyes, raised the flag above his head and repeated:

‘Vive la république!’

‘Fire!’

A second volley made Mabeuf fall on his knees. With impossible resilience, he stood up, dropped the flag back onto its place, and fell backwards.

His body was caught by the insurgents, who held him up so carefully it was as if he was still alive.

‘What men these regicides are!’ Enjolras exclaimed. His voice was steady. There was no grief in it, only admiration.

‘This is only for you,’ Courfeyrac whispered to him, ‘and I don’t wish to diminish the enthusiasm. But he was anything but a regicide. I knew him. His name was father Mabeuf. I don’t know what ailed him today. But he was a brave blockhead. Just look at his head.’

‘Blockhead and Brutus heart,’ Enjolras answered.

Enjolras spoke, as he always did, with passion. He called for respect for the old man and to follow his example. He then stooped down and timidly kissed him on the forehead. He gently took off his coat and demonstrated the bleeding bullet holes.

‘This is now our flag.”

The martyr was carried down and laid on the table in the basement room. Monsieur Dubois, tears in his eyes, stayed by his side.

‘Take care!’ Gavroche warned, seeing Municipal Guards cross the barricade.

Bahorel, the first at the scene, killed one of them at a close distance – the muzzle of his carbine was touching the assailant.

Less than a moment later, Bahorel was killed by a bayonet.

Another guard had pinned down Courfeyrac who, helpless, cried for help.

A giant over two metres tall was approaching Gavroche, who calmly aimed Javert’s musket at him and pulled the trigger. Javert had not loaded the musket. The giant burst out in a pitiless laugh and swung his bayonet at the gamin.

Just before it touched Gavroche, the Guard dropped his musket, as he had been shot in the middle of the forehead.

A second shot killed the one who had attacked Courfeyrac.

It was Marius. He now had no more weapons, but he noticed a keg of powder and ran towards it. A musket was aimed at him, but someone’s hand and possibly their chest had stopped it from reaching Marius. Marius was so focused on the keg of powder, he did not stop to see what had happened.

Enjolras was trying to prevent chaos and called the shots, but the barricade was still on the verge of being taken over.

Marius raised the keg of powder. He also held a torch.

‘Begone, or I’ll blow the barricade!’ Both the attackers and the defenders fell silent.

‘Blow up the barricade!’ a sergeant cried, ‘and yourself also!’

‘And myself also.’ Marius answered and raised the torch closer to the powder. Something about the lifeless way he spoke and the resigned look in his eyes made it evident he was not bluffing.

The assailants were all gone.

Everyone crowded about Marius in excitement and gratefulness. This was the first time Grantaire had ever seen him and, it had to be said, he was impressed. Was this the same love-struck Marius the rest of them always made fun of?

He decided to stay away. He knew he would be intruding.

Combeferre joined him.

‘Have you seen Jehan?’ he asked, worry in his voice.

‘No…’ Grantaire looked around, but he was nowhere to be seen.

‘Do you think-?’

‘I don’t know, but-‘

They pushed through the crowd forcefully, took hold of Enjolras and dragged him out of the crowd.

‘What are you-?’

‘Jehan is missing. He must have been taken prisoner.’

‘What about a bargain? They have our friend; we have their officer. Have you set your heart on the death of this spy?’ Combeferre’s voice was higher than usual; he was desperate.

‘Less than on the life of Jean Prouvaire.’

Combeferre tied his handkerchief to his cane, his fingers fumbling in haste.

‘Wait, you’re going to go out there?’ Grantaire protested. ‘They’ll shoot you.’

Combeferre looked up at him, his eyes devoid of life.

‘I have no choice.’

Grantaire and Enjolras watched tensely as Combeferre climbed onto the barricade with his makeshift flag of surrender.

Courfeyrac had untied Javert from the post and followed Combeferre, his pistol held against the side of Javert’s head.

‘This is Inspector Javert!’ Combeferre called. ‘Unless you give us back our friend, he will die.’ The message was clear.

After a minute, Jehan was swiftly returning to the barricade. Accordingly, Courfeyrac pushed Javert forward, the spy leaving slowly and reluctantly.

Combeferre helped Jehan get up onto the barricade and embraced him. Moments later, a shot was heard. Jehan gasped and fell down to the inside of the barricade, pulling Combeferre down with him.

Courfeyrac ran out, before anyone else had time to react, and took Javert back into the barricade, closing the opening before any more shots could hit.

Combeferre knelt by Jehan’s side. The injured man was shivering and holding onto Combeferre’s shirt.

Combeferre was sobbing. Jehan tried to speak, to calm him down, but he could not.

‘I- Combeferre, I lo-‘

He wailed in pain. He knew he would not be able to finish the sentence. With difficulty, he raised his head close to Combeferre’s.

‘I finished the poem,’ he whispered and pressed his lips against Combeferre’s for a moment. Then his head fell back and he breathed no more.

Combeferre sunk down and spread his arms over Jehan’s body, as if protecting him. He then threw his head back and uttered a heartrending scream, more of a howl. Amongst the insurgents, there was not a single dry cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, ok? I'm sad too :'(  
> Also, were you expecting the Combeferre/Jehan? Because I definitely wasn't. I just read the line "Jean Prouvaire and Combeferre silently grasped hands, and, leaning upon one another in the corner of the barricade..." and thought: why is this not a more popular ship?  
> Au revoir, off to edit the tags.


	13. Messages

Enjolras watched from a distance as Combeferre wept in the corner of the barricade, leaning over a paving stone. Enjolras started in alarm as Combeferre raised his hand and slashed it against a fragment of glass that stuck out from the barricade, however the man seemed to have a reason for it, as he let the blood spill over the stone. It was in order to read the writing, although Enjolras couldn’t have known this.

Combeferre’s expression softened, then he smiled briefly before starting to cry again. After a while he regained some of his composure and started scribbling on a piece of paper. From the way he was glancing between the paper and the stone, Enjolras assumed he was copying whatever was written on it.

Combeferre folded the piece of paper carefully and put it in his inside pocket. When he started to lift the paving stone Enjolras saw the figure of Grantaire join him and help. They were heading in the direction of the basement.

Grantaire was conflicted. He had been observing Combeferre, just as Enjolras had, but he had no idea what to do. Once he saw Combeferre desperately trying to carry the stone away, he knew he couldn’t stay away; when he went near to him, he had no idea what to say. He could not leave Combeferre to suffer alone, but there was nothing he could say that Combeferre would want to hear. There was no right answer.

They got down to the basement room and laid the stone down in a place that looked safe. This gave Grantaire an opportunity to look at the writing on it. It was bloodstained – it took him a moment to remember it was Combeferre’s blood. He didn’t want to intrude by reading too much of it, but he read just enough to see that it was a poem. Typical Jehan.

He looked up and looked at Combeferre. His hair was in a mess and it looked as if some had been torn out, and his face was ashen, but his eyes were red. They shone like there were still tears in them, ready to fall as soon as nobody was looking.

They both became aware of Javert’s silent presence in the room. He had been brought back there after the National Guard had broken their side of the bargain. They went up to the main part of the wine-shop which was completely abandoned. No one was in the mood for drinking and laughing.

‘Combeferre,’ Grantaire said, then he was stuck. There were no words to express what he wanted to say. Tears streamed down his face and he hated himself for it. Jehan’s death had destroyed him too, but he had wanted to be strong in front of Combeferre, as the other man must have been infinitely more hurt.

Combeferre understood, although he had no words to say so either. They embraced and Combeferre buried his face in Grantaire’s shirt.

Courfeyrac entered the wine-shop, and Grantaire left, leaving Courfeyrac to comfort Combeferre.

He found Enjolras in exactly the same spot as he was before. He had not seen him cry at any point, but his eyes were significantly redder than earlier.

Enjolras wasted no time. He directed the repair of the barricade. The insurgents, far from being discouraged by the tragic passing of sweet Jehan, were enraged by it. They redoubled their efforts, making the barricade two feet taller as well as repairing the damage to it. Marius, however, had not been seen for a while.

Enjolras advised everyone to get two hours of sleep, however almost no-one followed his advice, including himself.

Grantaire was shaken. He could not believe Jehan and Bahorel were dead. Earlier, that is, in another life, he had never seen anyone die. He had only ever been to one funeral, and that was of a distant aunt when he was seven. He did not comprehend then what was happening.

Now, he realised, most of them wouldn’t have funerals. He thought of Mabeuf lying on the table in the basement, and what would happen to him in a few days, after the barricade was taken. He was unsure of what would happen to any of their bodies.

He reflected – he knew that at least one of them would get a decent burial. He had seen the grave. He looked up at Enjolras and his stomach plummeted. When he first saw the grave, he felt no emotions at the thought of the remains six feet under him. Now he looked at who would become those remains.

Enjolras also looked up and saw Grantaire staring at him with a haunted look in his eyes.

‘What is it?’ He said softly.

‘I’ve seen your grave.’

Enjolras nodded. He understood how Grantaire felt: guilty.

Perhaps as guilty as he did.

‘Vivent les peoples,’ he said, gesturing at the wall of the café.

Feuilly was standing by the inscription, nail in hand.

Enjolras reflected for a moment, then remembered something.

‘Come on, Grantaire. We must hoist our flag.’

‘But the flag is up,’ Grantaire said, jogging to keep up with Enjolras’ lengthy strides.

‘Do you remember what I said?’ he lifted up a ripped and bloody piece of fabric that Grantaire realised was Mabeuf’s coat.

‘This is our flag now.’

‘And I meant it. Let all the treacherous cowards be reminded what true bravery and dignity is.’  

The pole of the omnibus was damaged, but it still sufficed to bear the flag.

Everyone was restless, trying to find something to do. There was no longer any food at the barricade so Enjolras clearly forbade drinking. When around fifteen bottles of wine were found in the cellar, Grantaire discovered him hiding them under the table Mabeuf lay on.

‘I don’t think anyone will take them now,’ he stated, a touch of triumph in his voice.

*     *     *

Enjolras had done something unexpected.

‘As for the people, they were boiling yesterday, but this morning they do not stir,’ he had said. ‘Nothing to expect, nothing to hope, No more from a Faubourg than from a regiment. You are abandoned.’

He – the one who made those passionate speeches, the one who always chose to believe the best of humanity – he was saying there was no hope. He didn’t sound like himself; he sounded like Grantaire from a few weeks before.

Needless to say, most of the insurgents were shocked. The ones who were in on “the thing” weren’t surprised by the content of the message, but they were most definitely aghast that Enjolras had said it.

‘So be it,’ said a man in the crowd. ‘Let us make the barricade twenty feet high, and let us all stand by it. Citizens, let us offer the protest of corpses. Let us show that, if the people abandon the republicans, the republicans do not abandon the people.

The identity of the man who said this is unknown, but what he said revived the spirit at the barricade.

*     *     *

Enjolras and Combeferre brought four uniforms. The insurgents knew what it meant. Four of them would have to leave.

Combeferre spoke of their duties to their families. He said they must not be selfish – they have to put others’ needs over their own desire to sacrifice themselves at the barricade. He did not think, however, of his own mother.

After long discussions over who should leave, five men were chosen.

‘There are five!’ Marius exclaimed.

Again, the debate resumed. The decision was harder this time, as they were choosing one man who will die instead of five who will live.

They could not choose, and time was running out. They left the decision to Marius, who, although he seemed distant, was horrified at the idea of selecting a man for death.

Suddenly, a fifth uniform fell onto the ground. An old man had entered the barricade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Jean Valjean is here!  
> Also, I know I pretty much omitted the character of Eponine (who is one of my favourite characters) but the story is told from Grantaire and Enjolras' point of view, so I couldn't put it in. I hinted at it though through Marius' behaviour.  
> Sorry! :(


	14. Mercy

‘Who is this man?’ Bossuet asked.

‘He is a man who saves others,’ Combeferre added.

‘I know him,’ Marius said gravely.

Enjolras turned to the man.

‘Citizen, you are welcome.’ Then, hesitating for a moment: ‘You know that we are going to die.’

The man did not answer. He helped the saved fifth man put on his uniform.

*     *     *

Enjolras was standing on the paving stones that formed a staircase to the crest of the barricade. Grantaire was standing close by him, but was not noticed by the leader who was lost in thought. His face was angelic, and a small smile subconsciously played on his lips. His eyes – they had a depth to them and hid a fire.

Grantaire, although he was not part of this scene, would have happily stayed in it for eternity, but all too soon it ended. Enjolras looked up sharply; the dreaminess that had graced his features was gone. All that was left now was a terrified look of realisation. Slowly, the golden head turned around to face Grantaire, as if it had been aware of his presence there the entire time.

Grantaire knew what had happened.

‘You were thinking of the future,’ he said softly, making his way to stand on the barricade by Enjolras.

Enjolras did not answer. He merely looked at Grantaire.

‘It’s not that bad, you know. Not for everyone.’

‘Exactly. There will always be inequality. You may have a normal, ordinary life. But what of the poor, the homeless, the ones in the war-torn countries where I promised peace?’

‘Enjolras, you’re just one man. I think we all forget that sometimes.’ Grantaire had certainly been unaware of the fact for most of the time he was with Enjolras.

‘Perhaps. And despite what you believe, I have feelings.’

‘I know you do.’

‘I just try not to show them. Being over emotional with others is usually not helpful. But I – I wish I knew what others felt like. I’ve always been privileged. I’ve never been hungry or cold. I’ve never had to work or borrow money. Sometimes I think I’m not the best person for the role of leader. The people need someone who understands them.’

‘Enjolras, don’t be an idiot. There is no one who understands the people better than you do. Despite what some may think, you have empathy. Just because you don’t show it doesn’t mean it’s not there.’

‘I don’t know if the poor agree with you.’

‘Trust me, Enjolras,’ Grantaire didn’t want to have to say it, ‘I know.’

‘Do you?’

He would have to say it.

‘I’ve been homeless.’

‘You have?’ Enjolras could not conceal his concern.’

‘Yes.’

‘How did it happen?’

‘I was fifteen. My parents- I had to leave home.’

‘Why? What did your parents do? Did they hurt you?!’ Enjolras was starting to sound aggressive. He tried to control his anger, not to scare Grantaire, but he could not hide it all.

‘No – well, not exactly. I suppose they did.’

‘How?’ Grantaire had no idea how he was going to tell him.

‘They- they weren’t bad parents, exactly. Actually, they were great parents. I loved them, and I thought they loved me, and would love me, no matter what.’

‘What happened?’

‘They…’ _How am I meant to say this?_ ‘They couldn’t accept me for who I was. I thought that they would.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Please, Enjolras. Don’t make me tell you.’

For a moment Grantaire thought he would. He hadn’t stopped questioning him up till then.

He could see Enjolras wanted to, but shook his head.

‘It’s alright. I think I understand. Like Jehan?’

‘Like Jehan.’

‘So, how did you manage?’

‘I was lucky. I ran into some good people. They said I could stay with them. There was an abandoned building, where there were nine of us. We made enough money to survive somehow. I think some of them must have stolen, probably. If they did, they didn’t tell me about it. They knew I wouldn’t have approved.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Begging, mostly. Sometimes I drew and I managed to sell a few sketches. In my whole time of being homeless I was only able to get a small, one-off job once. I wanted to do more, but it’s not the same as now. No one wants to employ a homeless person.’

‘Were you still homeless when you arrived here?’

‘No. I got lucky. When I was nineteen, one of my friends inherited some money from a relative. We moved in together. Once I had somewhere to live, I looked more presentable and I got a job at the printing place. I’ve been working there since then.’

‘Is your friend missing you?’

‘I don’t know. He had gone away for a work placement for six months. I’m not sure I understand how time works anymore. I don’t know if the events in my time are happening now or if they won’t happen for 184 years.’

After a lengthy goodbye to the ones who remained, the five men in uniform left the barricade.

‘I suppose they’re the lucky ones,’ Enjolras sighed.

‘I think they don’t feel very lucky at the moment,’ said Grantaire.

‘There go five men condemned to life, as downstairs there is one condemned to death.’

When Grantaire didn’t answer this, Enjolras looked at him, bemused.

‘You’re still not happy with it, even though you have seen what they do.’

‘Enjolras, tell me this: is our fight against individuals?’

‘No. But it is individuals who we are killing.’

‘You see that, then.’

‘Look, I’m not alright with it either!’ That was the first time Grantaire had ever heard Enjolras raise his voice, and it was directed at him.

‘Sorry,’ Enjolras looked down at the ground. ‘It’s just that there isn’t any other way and I hate it. I’m painfully aware that every man I kill in combat is a human being.’

He turned to Grantaire, his face pitiful. Grantaire did not know what else to do other than hug him. He held Enjolras close as sobs racked his frame.

‘Please forgive me, Enjolras. I didn’t mean to- I didn’t think I’d upset you.’

‘No. No one does. That’s the problem, isn’t it?’ He moved away from Grantaire and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so bitter. We should see how Inspector Javert is doing.’

He went down to the basement room, Grantaire at his heels. Javert had not moved, and was still lost in thought.

‘Do you need anything?’ Enjolras asked, pulling him out of his reverie.

‘When shall you kill me?’

‘Wait. We need all our cartridges at present.’

‘Then, give me a drink.’

Enjolras brought him a glass of water and helped him to drink it, as Javert was tied up.

‘Is that all?’

‘I am uncomfortable at this post. It was not affectionate to leave me to pass the night here. Tie me as you please, but you can surely lay me on a table. Like the other.’ He nodded towards M. Mabeuf.

Enjolras commanded five insurgents to transport Javert from the post to the table.

Grantaire did not like seeing a man whom he quite admired being bound like that, so he kept to the corner of the room. Therefore he saw the man who had donated the uniform earlier standing in the threshold of the door. Javert also saw him: he raised his eyes, then dropped them again.

‘It is very natural,’ he said.

*     *     *

It was dawn. Enjolras and some of those more dedicated to him, Grantaire included, had been tearing up paving stones from everywhere, both to build a barricade in Rue Mondétour and to reinforce the main one.

Enjolras took his place at the crest of the barricade and all fell silent. Soon, gunners approached with a piece of artillery. A match had already been lit.

‘Fire!’ Enjolras cried. There was a flash and smoke covered the battlefield. However, the gunners were unharmed, and proceeded with their task in a calm and precise way.

‘Bravo for the gunners!’ Bossuet cried. The barricade applauded.

The cannon was aimed directly at them. It went off, and the ball struck the barricade in unison with Gavroche.

‘Present!’ he cried cheerfully, making more of an impression than the ball did. Marius protested against him being there. Grantaire understood that he had sent the gamin to deliver a message with the intention of keeping him away from the barricade.

Enjolras was the only one who had not left his post.

‘Heads down, keep close to the wall!’ he cried. ‘And all on your knees along the barricade!’

They were all scattered around Gavroche – his order was not fully completed when the army fired. The ricochet killed two men and injured three.

‘The barricade will not withstand another shot like that,’ Enjolras turned to Grantaire, who was, as always, by his side.

‘What can we do to stop it?’ Grantaire climbed up onto Enjolras’ battlement and crouched down beside him as he peeked over the top of the barricade.

Enjolras pointed his carbine at a gunner who was adjusting the aim of the cannon. Grantaire understood.

‘No! Enjolras, you can’t!’

‘Let me alone. We must do what we must.’ A tear rolled slowly down his marble cheek.

‘Combeferre, help me!’ Grantaire called on the gentle soul. He had been silent up to that point, dazed. He was thinking of another young man who was killed in combat.

‘He’s right. Enjolras, he is young, charming, well-educated, intrepid, a thinker, he has a mother and father. He might be your brother.’

‘He is.’

‘Yes. And mine also. Well, don’t let us kill him.’

Enjolras loosened his hold on the trigger and turned to look between Combeferre and Grantaire.

‘Then what do you propose that I do?’ His voice was shaky and broken.

‘Maybe if you just injure him?’ Grantaire suggested. ‘Or break the cannon?’

Enjolras chose the latter. He shot the wheel of the cannon; he did not miss. It rolled off and the gun fell, at the same time pinning down the gunner.

‘See? He is unharmed, the cannon cannot hit us unless they lift it themselves,’ Combeferre said.

Enjolras led Grantaire away for a moment.

‘Grantaire, I can’t believe I- I was going to do it. I would have done it if not for-‘

‘Combeferre.’

‘You.’

‘You were going to ignore me.’

‘It seems I do that too much.’ Enjolras still had tears streaming down his cheeks. He was not even trying to hide them from Grantaire anymore.

‘It doesn’t matter now. The young man is alive and well, probably slightly in shock but they may have got him out from under the cannon now. We may have convinced you, but ultimately you were the one who chose not to pull that trigger.’

‘It bought us time. We may need to go back and fire a finishing shot, but I have a feeling that gun will not be used against us again. It has bought us more time than taking the gunner’s body away would. Come on, we should make sure everything is under control.’

He walked a few paces, then turned to Grantaire again.

‘I know you think I ignored you, Grantaire. But the truth is, while Combeferre convinced my head, you convinced my heart. Everyone always assumes that I will follow the first. I usually do. But not always.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love adding angsty scenes into the mix, if you couldn't tell already :p  
> P.S. Does anyone have any theories as to why Enjolras didn't do this in the book? I'm very curious :)


	15. Patria

By the time they got back, a few more skilled shots from the barricade had rendered the cannon completely useless. It now lay on the ground, with the men surrounding it clueless as to what to do about it.

‘Look, Enjolras, that side of the barricade has been worn thin by the ball,’ Feuilly pointed at a section where there was only an armchair and some rubble separating the defenders from the attackers.

‘We must place a mattress there,’ Enjolras commanded.

‘We have none,’ Combeferre said, ‘the wounded are lying on them.’

Even Enjolras would not have deprived a dying man of his mattress for the sake of the living. He fell silent, trying to think of another way.

The old man who had provided the fifth uniform stood up.

‘Can someone lend me a double-barrelled rifle?’

This was the first time he had spoken since arriving at the barricade. Before, he had been silent and still, not taking part in any of the proceedings.

Enjolras handed him his own rifle which he had just reloaded.

The man took aim at the attic window of one of the surrounding houses. There was a mattress on it, suspended by two ropes. They were a great distance away, therefore they were closer to resembling threads.

He fired, and one of the ropes snapped. He fired again and the mattress fell.

‘Here is a mattress!’ The whole barricade cried, applauding.

‘Yes,’ pointed out Combeferre, ‘But who will go and fetch it?’

The mattress had fallen in the street outside the barricade. The soldiers were firing at the barricade incessantly.

Still silent, the shooter left the barricade, walked through the storm of bullets, and carried the mattress back to the barricade on his back. He fixed the mattress against the wall so that it was invisible to the artillery-men.

The volley of shots came, but they were stopped by the mattress. This time there was no fatal ricochet.

‘Citizen, the republic thanks you,’ said Enjolras.

Bossuet turned to Joly and Grantaire.

‘It is immoral that a mattress should have so much power. Triumph of that which yields over that which thunders. But it is all the same; glory to the mattress which nullifies a cannon.’

They ignored the bullets coming their way. They did not cause much damage, more to the windows of the Corinthe than to the barricade. Enjolras was wise: he did not make the mistake of replying and wasting all their ammunition. While the soldiers had the advantage of seemingly limitless supplies, the insurgents outwitted them.

Courfeyrac and Gavroche were taunting the assailants.

‘That’s right, tear up the cloth!’ Gavroche cried, ‘We want lint’.

‘You are getting diffuse, my good men.’ It was unclear whether Courfeyrac was addressing the fighters or their guns.

‘There is a troublesome overseer,’ Enjolras warned.

Grantaire looked up and saw a man standing on the roof. He looked like a guard.

For the second time, everyone’s attention was drawn to the old man, whose name, Gavroche had heard from Marius, was Monsieur Fauchelevent. He took his musket, aimed it at the soldier, and hit his casque. Had he missed, or hit his target perfectly? – the whole barricade wondered. This question was soon to be answered, as an officer replaced the other man promptly.

Again, Fauchelevent fired, and shot the officer’s casque off. The message was clear – and so was the roof.

‘Why didn’t you kill the man?’ Bossuet demanded. Fauchelevent did not answer.

Bossuet went over to Grantaire and Combeferre.

‘He has not answered my question.’

‘He is a man who does kindness by musket shots,’ answered Combeferre.

‘Besides, he didn’t even answer Enjolras. What do you expect?’ Grantaire added.

‘Are you suggesting I’m less threatening than Enjolras?’ Bossuet said in mock indignation.

‘Yes.’

They both burst out laughing.

The bullets stopped for a while, then were redoubled.

‘What’s happened?’ Combeferre asked Enjolras.

‘The soldiers have changed. The man there is Captain Fannicot. His company is the one that…’ Enjolras stopped himself, although it was too late. The company that had shot Jehan.

Combeferre loaded his musket. He wanted vengeance. There was a dark look in his eyes; Grantaire did not recognise him.

According to Enjolras, Captain Fannicot was resolute – close to being a madman. He now used an entirely impatient and irrational strategy – men charging at the barricade unexpectedly. There was one running towards Combeferre, and Grantaire was sure Combeferre would choose him to enact his revenge on; however, he did not fire. The man was shot down by someone else.

The National Guard had to fall back – about fifteen had been killed, including Fannicot himself.

‘The fools! They are getting their men killed and using up our ammunition, for nothing.’ Enjolras was angered by the pointless attack. ‘Hark! It seems to me that Paris is waking.’

As there was nothing to eat, and Enjolras had banned drinking, Courfeyrac and Bossuet provided a distraction.

‘I admire Enjolras,’ said Bossuet. ‘His impassive boldness astonishes me. He lives alone, which renders him perhaps a little sad. Enjolras suffers for his greatness, which binds him to widowhood. The rest of us have all, more or less, mistresses who make fools of us, that is to say braves. When we are as amorous as a tiger the least we can do is to fight like a lion. It is a way of avenging ourselves for the tricks which Mesdames our grisettes play us. Roland gets himself killed to spite Angelica; all our heroisms come from our women. A man without a woman, is a pistol without a hammer; it is the woman who makes the man go off. Now, Enjolras has no woman.’ Grantaire’s ears pricked up. ‘He is not in love, and he finds a way to be intrepid. It is a marvellous thing that a man can be as cold as ice and as bold as fire.’

Enjolras did not respond to this; Grantaire assumed he hadn’t heard it. Enjolras dropped his head so his hair covered his face.

‘Patria,’ he muttered in an undertone.

Grantaire heard this. _Patria,_ he thought. _Motherland._ He smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing as we are now on Chapter 15, I am fairly sure my statement that this story will be about 12 chapters was incorrect. Oh well. I know these last few chapters have pretty much been filler chapters - I'm writing this in canon era so I'm trying to stick to the book as close as I can; that's why there are a lot of quotes and not much original content. However, I promise the last chapter (maybe in 2 or 3 chapters' time?) will be better - at least, I'm looking forward to writing it and I hope you're looking forward to reading it :)


	16. Little Great Souls

‘Something new!’ exclaimed Courfeyrac. ‘My name is Eight-Pounder’.

The artillery-men placed this second gun next to the first. It would seem that they had learnt from before, as there were metal plates covering the wheels.

As this cannon fired at the barricade, two others were heard from a distance.

‘That is coming from the barricade at St. Merry,’ said Feuilly.

‘We must at all events diminish the inconvenience of those pieces,’ said Enjolras. ‘Fire at the front left wheel!’

The barricade, which had hitherto been silent, opened fire. The street was, once again smothered in smoke, which took a few minutes to clear. When it did, it revealed the wheel broken. There were two bodies lying next to it.

‘This goes well. Success!’ Bossuet said to Enjolras.

Enjolras shook his head.

‘An hour more of this success, and there will not be ten cartridges in the barricade.’

Not long after this remark, Grantaire saw a small figure in the street at the foot of the barricade. With horror, he recognised it as Gavroche, who held a basket from the wine-shop and was collecting the ammunition of dead National Guards.

‘Gavroche, what are you doing there?’

‘I am filling my basket, Grantaire.’

‘For God’s sake, the bullets, Gavroche!’

‘Well, it rains. What then?’

‘Get back here!’ Grantaire cried.

‘Directly,’ said the gamin, before springing into the street. He collected the cartridge boxes of the dead from Fannicot’s company – some twenty men had been left behind.

Smoke filled the barricade, separating the two sides as if by a veil. Gavroche used it to hide, but as a result Grantaire could not see him either. He had no indication of life from the boy, until he heard his voice singing.

_On est laid à Nanterre,_

_C’est la faute à Voltaire,_

_Et bête à Palaiseau,_

_C’est la faute à Rousseau._

Another shot fired. Grantaire was unsure of whether it had hit him or not, but the silence was once again broken by another verse. This continued for a while, until one bullet hit him. He stumbled, then fell.

The barricade was stunned: momentarily, they had forgotten about the danger Gavroche was in. Too late, they had been reminded of his mortality.

But Gavroche was not to be stopped. He rose up, blood streaming down his face, and turned to face the direction from which the shot came.

_Je suis tombé par terre,_

_C’est la faute à Voltaire,_

_Le nez dans le ruisseau,_

_C’est la faute à–_

He never got to finish. A gun fired again – the same gun that had hit him before – and he fell, face forward, onto the ground. This time, he did not move again. As someone who had been there that night put it – the little great soul had taken flight.

Grantaire sprang from the barricade, at a speed matched only by Marius. He leaned over the body – there was no life left in it. His forehead stung suddenly, but he paid no attention to it. He only moved when Marius lifted Gavroche up in his arms. He picked up the basket of cartridges and carried it back.

Marius was carrying Gavroche towards the basement, probably to put him on the table beside Mabeuf. Grantaire followed him blindly, but Enjolras stopped him.

‘You are hurt,’ he said.

Grantaire raised his hand up to his forehead and winced. When he took his hand back, it was covered in blood.

‘I don’t think it’s serious,’ Enjolras continued, ‘probably just a graze.’ He took off his cravat and bandaged Grantaire’s forehead with it.

Combeferre had taken Grantaire’s basket without him noticing and was now distributing the cartridges. Fauchelevent refused to take any, unsurprisingly.

Combeferre did not even venture to offer ammunition to Grantaire. He was dazed, and had only one aim – to see Gavroche. He headed straight into the Corinthe and stood staring at Gavroche, lying next to Mabeuf: two very different heroes.

Grantaire remained in a similar state until he was disturbed by Enjolras issuing an order: ‘Carry some paving stones into the house. Fortify the windows with them. Half the men to the muskets, the other half to the stones. Not a minute to lose.’

He went into the basement and saw Grantaire kneeling by the table. He went up to him and spoke to him gently.

‘Grantaire, come and help me.’

‘What with?’

‘We’ve fortified the windows with paving stones now, as much as we can, and now I’m going to take these bottles upstairs.’ He gestured to underneath the table, where he had hidden the wine earlier. ‘Broken glass will be our last defence.’

‘Why are you taking it upstairs?’ Grantaire asked as he was following Enjolras with a crate.

‘It’s where the last survivors will go, like the keep of a castle.’

They reached the top of the stairs and he suddenly turned around.

‘Grantaire?’ he said, his voice quiet and wavering.

‘Enjolras?’

‘The fighting is going to break out pretty seriously any moment now. We might not- I mean, we probably will get separated at some point. And people are going to die. Including our closest friends. So if- if at any time- I know you’re not going to be fighting so if there’s nothing more to be done, just please try to come back here. Even if you do make it back I can’t guarantee this place will be safe for long, but- I’ll be here. And- I just want to see you again. Alive.’

‘I understand. And I will try.’

Enjolras went down and was instructing Feuilly on what to do when the barricade is taken. He turned to Javert.

‘I won’t forget you.’ He laid down a pistol on the table. ‘The last man to leave this room will blow out the spy’s brains.’

‘Here?’ someone asked.

‘No, do not leave this corpse with ours. You can climb over the little barricade on the Rue Mondétour. It is only four feet high. The man is well tied. You will take him there, and execute him there.’

Enjolras sat down at the end of the table and loaded his carbine; it was clear he intended to stay there. Perhaps he wanted to be the last one to leave and kill the spy himself. Fauchelevent went up to him.

‘You are the commander?’

‘Yes.’

‘You thanked me just now.’

‘In the name of the republic. The barricade has two saviours, Marius Pontmercy and you.’

‘Do you think that I deserve a reward?’ Grantaire knew where this was heading.

‘Certainly.’

‘Well, I ask one.’

‘What?’

‘To blow out that man’s brains myself.’

Javert had looked up at that point and spotted the old man.

‘That is appropriate,’ he said.

Enjolras stood up and surveyed the room. There were about a dozen men in there, all watching him expectantly. Grantaire could see that he was making a difficult decision. Enjolras’ eagle gaze deliberately avoided Grantaire. He knew he did not agree.

‘No objection,’ he said finally, and he did not have a choice. He could not choose Grantaire’s feelings over a room full of people who had no reason to spare Javert’s life. Had he not just ordered his death?

‘Take the spy.’ He stood up and gave his seat up to Fauchelevent.

As soon as the man picked up the pistol, the sound of trumpets reached their ears.

‘Come on!’ Marius called.

Javert laughed.

‘Your health is hardly better than mine.’

‘All outside?’ Enjolras ignored his comment.

As the insurgents rushed to take up their positions, Enjolras took Grantaire aside for a moment.

‘I tried. You know I tried.’

‘I know.’

‘I was going to stay there and let him go after everyone else had left. I didn’t expect anyone to want to be the executioner! Especially Fauchelevent. It is strange, if you think about it. Remember the sentries with the casques?’

‘Yes. It seems unlikely. But from the way I’ve seen Javert react, I think they may know each other somehow.’

‘Revenge?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Anyway, since the attack has started and I have to be there, I will leave my duty to you.’ And, handing him a pistol. ‘I don’t expect you to use it, even just for threatening. I know you will think of something.’

With that, he ran off.

‘Farewell till immediately!’ Javert called after him. His words, though malicious, had wit in them.

Grantaire left, as though following Enjolras, then returned straight away and hid behind the door. The two older men thought they were alone.

Fauchelevent untied the rope that held Javert to the table and motioned to him to get up. He afterwards led him slowly out of the wine-shop. They crossed the interior of the barricade – the insurgents were facing the other way. Grantaire noticed that Marius had seen them pass, but he also turned around and Grantaire slipped past him unseen.

Grantaire observed them through a gap in the little barricade in Rue Mondétour. They were facing away from him, so he could not see what they were looking at, but he recognised Javert’s voice.

‘It seems to me that I know that girl’. Grantaire could only assume they were talking about a dead person’s body. _Strange,_ he thought. _I don’t recall seeing any girl here, and certainly not wounded._

‘Javert, it is I,’ Fauchelevent said, as if it was not obvious that Javert already knew him.

‘Take your revenge.’ He was still proud and had an air of authority about him.

In reply, Fauchelevent took out a knife.

‘A surin! You are right. That suits you better.’

As the knife drew close to Javert’s throat, Grantaire panicked. He could not think of any perfect solution. He had not fired a gun before, but knew his aim would never be anything like Fauchelevent’s. He was about to stand up and draw attention to himself, but it appeared he did not need to.

Instead of slitting his throat, Fauchelevent cut the rope around Javert’s neck, then did the same with his wrists and feet.

‘You are free,’ he said.

Javert was no longer the cold, distanced figure of authority. He was shaken. There was no better word to describe it. He could not speak.

‘I don’t expect to leave this place,’ Valjean continued. ‘Still, if by chance I should, I live, under the name of Fauchelevent, in the Rue de l’Homme Armé, Number Seven.’

‘Take care,’ Javert warned through clenched teeth.

‘Go.’

‘You said Fauchelevent, Rue de l’Homme Armé?’ _Does Javert not know his name? Is Fauchelevent not his real name?_

‘Number Seven.’

Javert repeated it under his breath, then buttoned up his coat, stood up straight, turned around and walked a few steps forward. He turned around.

‘You annoy me. Kill me rather!’ he cried, desperation in his voice. He sounded like a man who did not know what to do next. However, his tone was more respectful.

‘Go away.’

Javert obeyed, and left.

“Fauchelevent” fired the pistol and returned to the barricade.

‘It is done,’ he said.

Grantaire went to Enjolras, who was waiting for him.

‘Well?’

‘It is done,’ he said, but his meaning was entirely different to the old man’s. ‘But it is not me that did it.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just discovered the next chapter will be the last one. Expect angst (basically I have expanded a couple of pages in the brick to a whole chapter, but you can't blame me - I mean who doesn't want an extended Permets-tu scene?). Thanks to any of you who have stuck with this so far - I will do all in my power to make sure the next chapter is not a disappointment.


	17. Wherever You May Go

The drum beat and the sound of trumpets announced the start of the final attack. They charged at the barricade, and almost overflowed it, but the insurgents fought back well. Bullets flew through the air from both sides, with equal resolution. All present were prepared to die for their cause. The troops wanted to end the rebellion; the rebels kept struggling to survive just a little longer. They knew they were losing, but they were determined to do as much damage as they could, while they could.

Grantaire saw with relief that Enjolras was sheltered, and was taking down men without them even noticing him. He seemed safe for now – the same could not be said for Marius. Half of him was completely exposed and he was firing without even looking. He looked like a ghost.

His friends were mostly in good spirits, especially Bossuet and Courfeyrac.

‘What have you done with your hat?’ Bossuet asked.

‘They have knocked it off at last by their cannonade,’ Courfeyrac answered.

‘Does anybody understand these men,’ Feuilly said, ‘who promised to join us, and took an oath to help us, and who were bound to it in honour, and who are our generals and who abandon us!’

Combeferre answered, with an answer worthy of Courfeyrac, but in a bitter tone:

‘There are people who observe the rules of honour as we observe the stars, from afar off.’

The barricade was assaulted countless times, but it always defended itself. Grantaire looked round to see what he could do. The answer lay littered on the ground before his eyes: there were so many wounded.

He ran up to them, checking their pulses – or sometimes just looking at them was enough to tell. There were significantly more corpses than injured, but he found the ones that could still be helped and took them to the ‘infirmary’. There were some mattresses free – all wounded that were not on the point of dying were at the barricade, fighting.

He was surrounded by death, but somehow he felt like he had never been more alive.

When he went back out to the barricade, the situation had changed. The soldiers were still attacking, and the barricade was still defending itself, but barely. The insurgents were being killed.

Bossuet was shot in the head. He fell, and Joly rushed to his side. One didn’t have to be a medical student to see that he was dead, but Joly cupped Bossuet’s face with his hands and whispered reassurances to him. Grantaire didn’t have the heart to tear him away.

Feuilly was struck over the head with the butt of a rifle, and Courfeyrac had been shot before Feuilly reached the ground. Courfeyrac still had a glimmer of laughter in his eyes. Grantaire closed them for him.

The same man who had shot Bossuet was advancing on Joly with a bayonet. He didn’t care and didn’t make any attempt to move. Grantaire threw himself at the guard, hoping to buy some time for Joly. The guard hit him in the stomach with the butt of his bayonet and Grantaire was forced to let go of him. The guard ran at Joly and pierced him in the back: he slumped down to the ground and lay by Bossuet as his eyes shut.

Combeferre was carrying a wounded man in his arms, when he was pierced by a bayonet. Three times.

He looked down at the blood seeping from his chest, then up at the sky. His lips moved as he whispered a few words. He fell with a smile on his face.

The centre of the barricade had so far been protected by Les Amis, but now only Marius and Enjolras remained, one at each end. The guard made one final assault; this time it succeeded.

There was nothing more to be done.

At this point, Grantaire thought, Enjolras would have wanted him to go to the first floor of the Corinthe. He knew there was nothing more he could do and should just go and wait for Enjolras. But he couldn’t. Not when there were still men alive, fighting. They were men he didn’t know, but they were just as important as his friends had been. It would feel too much like running away, so he stayed.

There was no order left amongst the insurgents. They fell back, and found themselves against the six-story house at the back of the barricade. They realised this was their only hope of salvation. They could go out the other side, escape the barricade, to freedom. They knocked on the door frantically, kicked it, hit it with the butts of their muskets. They called out, begged. Nobody opened.

Enjolras and some others formed a barrier around them, protecting them from the soldiers.

‘Keep back!’ he warned. An officer moved forward, and Enjolras aimed his gun directly at him. He understood the warning and stepped back.

He stood by the Corinthe, keeping the door open while fighting off the soldiers at the same time. The rest of the insurgents were still crowding round the door that would not open.

‘There is but one door open. This one.’

Enjolras let them pass behind him and enter, covering them with his body, facing a battalion alone. He had given up on his carbine and was swinging it around, successfully disarming the soldiers of their bayonets. When the last man had gone in, he himself entered, and there was a struggle between the insurgents and the soldiers to close the door.

Grantaire had been one of the first to get in. Now, as the besiegers were hammering on the door, all the men were going up the spiral staircase. Somehow, he was pushed back behind the counter, so whoever had the job of cutting down the staircase did not see him.

With the only way up quite literally cut off, and the attackers breaking down the door, the only thing Grantaire could think of was to stay still.

The soldiers burst in and looked round. There was a moment of confusion as they saw no one there, but they quickly realised where they had gone. They were certain upstairs was the only possible place for all the insurgents to go, so they didn’t search the room carefully.

They aimed their guns up where the staircase used to be, and fired. So did the insurgents. This lasted for as long as they had cartridges, which was not very long.

As the Guard mounted on each other’s shoulders and made their way up the stairs, the insurgents utilised the last weapons they had: wine bottles.

This was a futile defence, and the basement room was soon empty.

Wearily, Grantaire stepped out from behind the counter. He looked outside onto the barricade: troops were taking it down.

The one on Rue Mondétour had been taken down completely, and the street was abandoned. With a little luck, and if he was quick, he could get out unnoticed.

He looked up at the ceiling.

It was silent, so there couldn’t have been anyone there left alive. But then – why was the National Guard still up there?

A cry reached his ears:

‘This is the chief. He is the one who started this. As he has put himself there, it is a good place. Let him stay. Let us shoot him on the spot.’

‘Shoot me.’ Undoubtedly, that was Enjolras’ voice.

Grantaire saw what had happened. Enjolras had kept his promise; he was there. Grantaire needed to keep his.

He found a stool behind the counter, placed it under the staircase, and started to climb up. He had to hurry, but he also had to be quiet. He did not want someone to hear him and shoot him before he had even seen Enjolras. All the time, he was hearing the exchange.

‘Take aim!’ Grantaire’s heart froze.

‘Wait,’ one of the officers said. ‘Do you wish your eyes bandaged?’

‘No.’

‘Is it really you who are the chief?’

‘Yes.’

At this moment, Grantaire reached the first floor. He saw the situation. Enjolras was in the corner of the room, behind the billiard table. The soldiers’ eyes were all fixed on Enjolras, and they hadn’t even noticed Grantaire. Enjolras had.

The look in his eyes turned from confidence to terror as he stared at Grantaire.

‘GO!’ he mouthed.

Grantaire saw what his two options were, and how they would both end. He did not hesitate for a moment.

‘Vive la République! I belong to it!’ Grantaire cried, in a voice more powerful than he had thought himself capable of producing.

‘Vive la République!’ he repeated, crossing the room with a firm stride. He walked before the muskets without fear, and took his place beside Enjolras. For he now knew that was his place.

‘Two at one shot.’ His voice was still strong, but this time it was drenched with emotion.

He turned to Enjolras, and his voice was at once incredibly gentle and incredibly expressive.

‘Do you permit it?’

Enjolras did not move. A few seconds passed, and he was still a statue. Grantaire looked round at the men whose muskets were aimed at them. They were not even blinking.

Suddenly, something resembling a hurricane arose in front of him. As it moved closer he saw that it was the shape of a mirror, and something could be seen through it. A cold wind came from it, accompanied by freezing droplets of water.

For a moment he was blinded as something hit him in the face. He took it from over his eyes and recognised it as a rotting leaf.

For a moment, he gazed into the “mirror”. Then he understood. He could now see what was on the other side: some trees and a graveyard. He knew what was happening. It was a way back.

‘Will you go?’ A voice called out over the roar of the wind and the rain.

He spun round and saw Enjolras, who was heading towards him against the current of the wind.

He looked back at the soldiers – they were still frozen.

‘What?’ he called back.

‘As I understand, that is a passage back to your world. To your time.’

‘Yes, I- I think so.’

‘Then you must go.’

‘Never.’

‘I’m begging you.’ Enjolras placed his hands around Grantaire’s face. ‘Look at me!’

Grantaire hesitantly lifted his gaze and looked into Enjolras’ eyes. He had never seen them so passionate about anything: his most inspiring speeches and the most adrenaline-filled moments of battle had lit up a wildfire in them. Now, they held a supernova.

Enjolras had, moments before, looked completely healthy and well rested. Now, his golden hair was wet from the rain and strewn across his forehead. His eyes were red, and brimming with tears.

‘Look at me.’ Enjolras repeated, his voice desperate and broken.

‘I promised, didn’t I? “If you die, I will follow you.”’

‘I don’t care. All I know is that I couldn’t live with myself – I just can’t die knowing I killed you too.’

‘Enjolras, you’re not killing me. If anything, you’ve saved me.’

The wind grew louder and louder, making them shout even louder to be heard over it.

‘You have a chance! Grantaire, you have a chance!’ His voice rose to a heart-wrenching scream. ‘Why!? Why won’t you take it!?’

‘Because what awaits me there is far worse than what is here!’

‘Aren’t you afraid of dying!?’

‘Of course I am! This is the most terrified I have ever been. But it is nothing compared to living without you.’

‘You’re an idiot!’

‘I know! I love you, Enjolras!’

‘I know!’

‘You do!?’

‘Of course I do! And I love _you_ , Grantaire!’

‘What!?’

‘I love you! I love you!’

Grantaire broke down into tears and buried his face in Enjolras’ shoulder.

‘What are we going to do?’

‘I don’t know. I’m useless, Grantaire, I can’t protect you!’

‘You’re not useless, Enjolras, you’re protecting me right now!’

‘I’m not! I can’t make you go home!’ he roared.

‘Enjolras, you say you can’t die knowing I die too! But can you imagine? Can you even imagine what it would be like for me to live knowing I left you to die!?’

‘But **you were never meant to die here!** This is all wrong! You need to go back to your time, where you belong!’

‘I don’t belong anywhere, Enjolras. I don’t belong anywhere but with you! Do you want me to leave?’

‘No! My God, I don’t want you to go! But I am a terrible, selfish creature! You need to leave, Grantaire! You need to live!’

Grantaire stepped away from the portal, grabbed Enjolras’ wrist and took him back to the corner by the billiard table. He put Enjolras’ hand over his heart.

‘Do you trust me, Enjolras?’

‘Always.’

‘Then believe me when I say this: **If I have to choose between life and you, I choose you.** ’

Enjolras paused and reflected: it was obvious there was an internal struggle going on.

‘You’re certain? You’re absolutely certain?’

Grantaire nodded.

‘Then forgive me.’ Enjolras spoke – it was uncertain whom to.

‘This isn’t the end, Enjolras!’

‘No! It’s the beginning, I promise you. Wherever you are, I swear I will find you!’

‘Then I guess… See you on the other side.’

Enjolras grasped his hand with a smile.

The shots rang out. Eight bullets pierced Enjolras’ chest. He stayed stood up against the wall, as if the balls had nailed him there. Only he bowed his head.

Grantaire, stricken down, fell at his feet.

Their hands remained clasped.

**Epilogue**

The sun was setting as an old woman made her way to a hidden grave. She laid a red rose on it, then picked up the stone that lay next to it. She took out her knife and carved the poem and the date onto the stone once more, as it was becoming hard to read. The knife had her initials on it: A. P. – Aurore Pontmercy.

She added an extra word. It was ‘Grantaire’.

*     *     *

In another world, so unreachable and yet within everyone’s reach, the darkness of the night gave way to dawn. Two men walked along, holding hands.

Their souls were bound together just as tightly as their hands were linked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's finally over!  
> It's definitely a relief, although I really did enjoy writing some of it (especially that last chapter). I now see why most people don't write in Canon Era (because it just dragged on for way longer than I wanted it to and there wasn't much room for creativity around the middle) so I will be writing something completely different soon. Possibly crack, just for something a bit more light-hearted. Let me know what you think!  
> Anyway, thank you for sticking around for this. I really appreciate it and I'll be overjoyed even if I made just one person smile or cry :)


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